


Blood In The Water

by MotelsandDiners



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Alcohol, Arguing, Billy can be a sweetheart, Billy does, Billy is overprotective, Billy is sentimental when it comes to you, Billy just wants to spoil and impress you, Billy laments, Caretaking, Dead OC, Domesticity, Drunkeness, F/M, Fancy dinner dates-not dates, First Meetings, Flashbacks, Fluff, Frank patches you up, Frank saves you, Friends to Lovers, He's an ass but he cares, High-brow Christmas party, Ice-Skating, Injuries and getting patched up, Language of Flowers, Libraries, Matchmaking secondary characters, Minor Violence, Murder Mystery, Origami, Sharing a Shower, Snarky characters, Story telling within a story, Thai Food, The Plot Thickens, Whiskey - Freeform, You drive him up a wall, You guys argue a lot, You're on the run for reasons unknown, Your relationship with Billy is murky, but he goes because he's a softy not because of the whiskey, confrontation between characters, cuz bitches love libraries, hitting it off, intimidation and vaguely concealed threats, napkin notes, pay attention to the flowers, winter in New York, you bribe him with whiskey, you drag Frank shopping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-02-13 23:16:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 51,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12994659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotelsandDiners/pseuds/MotelsandDiners
Summary: Sharks don't sleep. You think you know what you are until blood hits the water, until it soaks into your skin, until it overtakes the water and everything's blurry with the color red. You think you know what you are until blood hits the water. And then you learn that sharks don't sleep.





	1. One Part Per Million

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm on my second run through of The Punisher on Netflix and as goddamned crazy as Billy is, I would be flat out lying if I said I wouldn't jump that man's bones, narcissism and deceitful behavior included. Although, I'd also be lying if I said I wouldn't run him over in a truck, so...Anyway. Have some Billy Russo, and eventually, have some Frank too. But don't be holding your breath for anything any time soon.

The first time Frank ran into you, he didn’t look twice. Or more accurately put: the first time _you ran into him_ , he didn’t look twice.

He was fresh out of the revenge game, trying to make a life as Pete Castiglione, and shambling through the monotony of demolition with half-assed gusto.

He was on his way back to his quaint abode when you rammed into him, emerging from an alley in a full sprint. He stumbled, but you, you fell flat on your ass with the breath knocked out of you and stars in your eyes.

Frank frowned down at you, noticing a few things off the bat: in the cold weather you were adorned only in a worn pair of jeans, an old pair of sneakers and t-shirt whose logo was on the verge of disappearing into the grey it sat upon.

You coughed, sawing in frigid air, and started to get up, wheezing out an apology. One that stopped when voices carried down the alley toward you, accompanied by rapidly approaching footsteps.

Frank would be lying if he said he didn’t think about walking away back then. Because he did.

But then he saw the types that were after you: burly, big, intimidating to anyone that wasn’t him, definitely packing heat.

“Shit.” He cursed, resigned, and reached down to haul you to your feet by your arm. You weighed practically nothing back then. He shoved you toward the sidewalk with a brisk order, “Get the hell out of here.”

You had opened your mouth to thank him but he just barked at you again and started down the alley.

It was short work. They were just some thugs with no experience, whose safety was in numbers and the handguns they tried to shoot him with. They never got around to it.

He went home that day with bloody knuckles, but no other injuries, and a couple fleeting questions: who were you, and why were they after you?

He didn’t dwell on it. You were just some kid that got herself into a spot of trouble like kids do. You left his mind fairly quickly, and he didn’t think about you again until the next time he saw you.

And when he saw you he was on red-alert, perking up in his booth, his hands tightening on his mug of strong coffee.

You came in, head ducked, shoulders tight, your steps short and light. You limped to a booth on the far end, pulled the blinds and settled into the corner of your booth with a loose grimace. Your eyes were closed, your breath brief and clinched.

You were injured, he gathered that much.

He sighed, and looked out his window, watching to see if you’d been tailed. Just in case. Because as much as he’d love to walk away, he knew that if he did and then read about a young girl getting murdered on her way home from this diner…

Well, he wouldn’t live with that.

So, he stayed. And drank cup after cup of coffee and made sure no one was waiting for you in the shadows outside the diner. Eventually, you flagged down the only working waitress and asked for a cup of coffee.

And he watched you, watched you drink your coffee black without so much as a grimace, something he found rare, considering how young you were. Kids this day and age couldn’t do coffee. They needed sugar and syrup, and sauces and whipped cream with toppings.

And he watched the napkins at your table disappear. One second they were there, the next they were just gone. The whole container, just, poof.

Frank frowned into his coffee. If you were bleeding napkins weren’t going to do a damn thing.

It was a half hour into your stint of coffee that you pulled a cellphone out of your back pocket with a pained grimace.

He couldn’t hear you from where you were, but he could gather enough from your expression as you talked over the phone.

Worry, hesitation, embarrassment, apology, and then gratitude.

All in that order.

Were you getting help?

Frank didn’t do anything. He didn’t approach you, or make eye contact, he kept his head down, his hood pulled low, and an eye out the window. Sure enough, ten minutes went by and a black car showed up outside, engine idling, the windows on it tinted black.

Frank was never really a car guy but he could tell it was expensive, and the person behind the wheel was probably wearing a three-piece suit that would cost him four paychecks.

He was more than a little surprised to see you get up out of your booth at that point, and limp to the counter where the waitress was brewing another pot of coffee. You said something to her, and handed her a folded-up napkin.

After that, you left, your head ducked, a hand on your side and your limp more prominent as you hobbled to the car waiting for you. Frank didn’t see who was driving, the automatic lights for an open door were turned off, and you disappeared inside the pitch-black interior.

And then that car took off, slowly. Frank watched the taillights go around the corner, something in the situation making his lip curl slightly.

Who were you?

“Excuse me, hon?” the waitress said as she approached his table.

He looked up, a hand placed over the top of his mug to wordlessly tell her he didn’t want any more coffee.

“That girl told me to give this to you. Also said you’d be paying for her coffee.” She laid the receipt on the table, as well the napkin and goes back to the counter.

Frank scoffed, and shot a look out the window in disbelief. “Little shit.” He mumbled to himself as he snatched up that napkin to unfold it.

_I’m not sure who you are, If you being here was a coincidence, Or What- but I’d likE to think YOU sat here drinking sub-par cOffee for half aN hour to makE SurE I wasn’t followEd, because for whatever reason, YOU sAved my ass a month ago in that alley. I neveR gOt to thank yoU, aND I won’t now because you’re picking up my bill, so I’ll save it for the next time. I’ll buy you a coffee._

Frank read it twice, as a whole.

And then he picked out the letters:

I OWE YOU ONE SEE YOU AROUND

He smirked, took forty bucks out of his wallet, left it on the table and stood. “Sure, kid.” He grumbled to himself, though he wasn’t really angry. Only a little impressed, and more than slightly amused.

If he only knew how different his life might have been if he approached you in that booth. If he spoke to you then, instead of a month later.

He’s wearing that same smirk now, feeling the same degree of amused and curious as he stares down into his coffee and sneaks glances at the empty booth on the other side of the room.

Frank wonders what happened to you that night. If you got the help you needed, or if-…if you didn’t. He hopes you did.

 

_That night…_

Your ass barely touches the seat before he tears into you. “How bad is it?” He asks tightly, pulling away from the curb, his hands loose on the steering wheel.

“I’ll be fine.” You say with a bone-deep sigh and lean back into your seat, closing your eyes in exhaustion.

He grunts, flickering his deep brown, nearly black eyes at you, taking in your pale complexion, the bags under your eyes, your ragged breathing. At the first red light nearly a minute later you’re tottering on the edge of sleep and he takes advantage of it, reaching across you to grab the hem of your shirt, yanking it up.

“Jesus Christ, Y/N.” he growls, getting a look at the wound above your hip.

You roll your eyes, and make to slap his hand away when you get a glimpse of his expression, and your hand merely falls limp at your side.

“I-“ he opens his mouth, and then snaps it shut, his eyes narrowed. The light changes to green ahead, and he releases a heated exhale with a sharp shake of his head.

“Will-“ you start, but he holds a hand up between, index finger pointing skyward,

“No. Not a word, Y/N. You hear me? Not a damn word.” He doesn’t look at you, he’s too pissed. All he’s seeing is red, and if he looks at you again before he calms down he’ll explode.

“Oh, fuck.” He breathes, his fists tight on the wheel, and his foot a little heavier on the gas.

You frown at him, eyebrows creased in guilt, and watch the speedometer climb for a few blocks before you part your lips. But you see the stiffness of his jaw, and his eyes pinched in the corners with an intense emotion, and you close your mouth, opting to lean your head against the cool window.

The rest of the ride passes in silence, and the tension in the car slowly bleeds out, like you. You watch scenery fly by in a blur for innumerable seconds until everything slows to a stop, and the engine purrs as it idles, and he’s looking at you with softer eyes.

They’re still hard, just not as angry.

He cuts the engine. “We’re here.”

You nod, eyes droopy, and reach for the handle. He stops you, a long arm extended over the distance to grasp your wrist,

“You’re not walking.”

Fine by you.

You leave him to do what he wants. Even if he is an ass about it.

You think he’ll offer support, sling one of your arms around his shoulders, and drag you into his home. But you’re wrong.

He carries you, bridal style, your head on his chest, your view being the cut of his jaw and sharpness of his chin. His voice is clear,

“You’re a real pain in my ass, you know?”

You smile wanly. “Ah, could always just leave me to die.” You joke, but his response is hard and cold,

“Don’t. Y/N, fucking don’t.” His hands tighten their grip on you, and you laugh tepidly, the sound raspy,

“You don’t owe him, anymore. You don’t have to watch out for m-“

“Shut up.” He softly orders, but his voice is brittle, and you listen to him, for once.

He’s seething in anger again, and you’ve forgotten how careful you have to be around him, how prone he is to mood swings because it’s been awhile. A long while since you’ve even talked.

The bathroom is where he dumps you, on the lid of the toilet, and all the lights come on. You wince with a groan, and shut your eyes. He shoots you a worried glance that you miss, and pulls the first-aid kit from under his sink.

He crouches in front of you as he gets everything ready, and you yourself are prepping for this. Without him saying a word to you, you pull your shirt up until you get the hem in your mouth and you bite on it, hard.

He huffs a laugh through his nose, and unscrews the bottle of rubbing alcohol, you tense up, and he looks at you, though you still have your eyes closed. “Gut up,” He says, and you creak your eyes open to glare at him, _fuck you,_ the look says, but he repeats himself, “Gut up.”

With a roll of your eyes, you nod.

And he’s not the least bit apologetic as he pours the bottle over the angry gash above your hip. The groan that tears out of you is guttural and raw, and your jaw aches immediately from the force you use to bite your shirt.

He nods sympathetically, but doesn’t say anything. Just makes quick, practiced work of stitching you up, eyes narrowed in focus at the task at hand as he listens to you heave breath through your nose.

When he’s done, he stands and peels back the shower curtain, but he’s turned towards you, those intense eyes bordering on furious. “Why the hell didn’t you come to me sooner? You could’ve bled out.”

“Did.” You grunt, fighting a yawn. You’re too tired to even make eye contact. “Stopped by last night. Wine was in the window.” You mumble, and rest your forehead on the cool marble of his sink.

Now he’s quiet. It’s a simple message the two of you came up with: if he was entertaining _company_ he’d leave a bottle of wine in the windowsill, in perfect view from the street below to covertly let you know that he was busy.

“S’fine,” you say, and shrug your shoulders. “Got my hands on a hemostatic, kept me from dying,” you lick your lips and stare at his floor, at the reflections of his ceiling lights. “S’fine.” You repeat.

His eyes are closed, his brows tight knit, and he runs a hand over his hair, hand resting on the back of his neck as he forces himself to breathe steady. You’ve just about fallen asleep again when he reaches into the shower and turns it on full-blast.

“Alright. Come on.” He says, and approaches you, ignoring the tired sigh that trickles out of you. He grabs your jacket at the shoulders and begins pulling it down your arms as you sit statuesque. “Come on.” He says again, stronger, less of a plea and more of an order.

“ _You’re_ a pain in the ass.” You moan at him, sitting upright, and he scoffs.

“Yeah.” He tosses your jacket into his hamper, and crouches in front of you again to tug your shoes off, socks too. “Too bad you’re stuck with me, huh?” he grumbles, grabbing the bottom of your jeans to pull those off. Too easily, they pretty much slide right off your legs.

“When’s the last time you ate?” he asks you, throwing your jeans over his shoulder.

You hum in the back of your throat, and slide your arms into your t-shirt. “When’s the last time you ate?” you sass him.

His hands dive under your shirt, and slide it off you. “I’m serious,” he argues, his tone a few degrees warmer than it’s been since you first called him. He grabs your chin, and ducks his head to meet your low gaze. “You-…I’m worried about you,”

“No need. I’m fine.” You sigh, meeting his eyes coolly, and his face drops with something akin to abject concern.

“Okay,” He murmurs, the corners of his mouth anchored down in a pout. Maybe he should push you, but you’ve never pushed him, never forced him to open up. So, he’ll give you the same respect.

He lets you discard of your bra and your panties, courteous to keep his gaze averted even as he offers his hand for you to take, and leads you into the shower.

You step right into the scalding spray, and he swallows hard, his throat tight with an emotion he’s kept a lid on for years. But you just have a way of coaxing the humanity right out of him.

He has a hand on the curtain, the plastic crinkling in his fist as he wars with himself.

You tilt your head back, hot water cascading down your neck, running in revitalizing rivulets over your chest and stomach. You hear the curtain get tugged shut and the shower becomes a little darker.

You wait for the bathroom door to shut, your eyes closed, steam rising around you, kissing your skin, when you feel an arm around your middle from behind. Breath hits the back of your neck, and he presses himself to your back, quiet, no explanation.

Your brow furrows. “William?”

“Just-“ he mumbles into your shoulder, lips warm and dry, water’s hitting his head, pulling his hair forwards to lay over your chest. “…shut up.” He says, his eyes clenched shut, his voice barely louder than the water.

So you do. You don’t say a word, not when he lifts his head to rest his chin on your shoulder, not when he wraps his other arm around you, not when he presses a kiss- yes, a kiss -into your temple, and not when he untangles himself from you to wash your hair.

Words are only spoken again when the water is shut off and he slips out first to wrap a towel around his waist, and then grab one for you.

You don’t know what’s gotten into him, what this mood is, but it’s the most docile, the most caring he’s ever been with you, so you let it happen.

“Come here,” he holds a towel open for you, a soft expression adorning his sanguine features.

You do, slipping your eyes closed when he wraps it around you, his arms on your back, and his lips in your hair as he holds you against him.

 “Hey,” he says, and you nuzzle at his shoulder as way of response, “I’m glad you’re here.” He confesses, sounding unnaturally shy.

You don’t reply, and he appears unaffected as he goes about drying your hair, and giving your body a once-over with the towel. When he’s satisfied, he tucks the towel around you, lays a hand on your back and nudges his nose into the back of your head.

“C’mon.” he murmurs. “Bed.”

By the time your head hits the pillow, you’re out. And Billy has to tuck you under the covers, pulling the sheet out from under you, tugging them up to your shoulders.

He smiles softly, in the safety of a dark room, and with you asleep. He crawls into the opposite side of the bed, and combs a hand through your hair, starting at the base of your skull to get the bulk of it, and sweeps it all over your shoulder.

Wearing that same smile, he stretches up and puts a lingering kiss in front of your ear. “Night, sweetheart.” He whispers.


	2. Solute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two of you are alike, in some ways. But in others, you are very different. Regardless, he ignores the differences, and clings to the similarities like the last dying rays of sunlight. He pretends that the differences don't matter. And you, you're blind to his dilemma, to his heart-wrenching ambition and internal war. You're very much the same, but no more than you are different.

For all the hours he spent training you, he never laid a hand on you (he refuses to). He’d stop, half a second before making contact, watch you flinch, and then he’d stay a second, his eyes steely as they bore into you. He’d give you a second to acknowledge your failure, accept it, let it sting, and then he’d step back.

And there’s an unspoken command when he gets his stance firm. _Do better._

That’s how he is about everything you do. Everything.

Dismantling, reassembling weapons. You do it in ten seconds, he tells you do it in 8. You hit the bullseye in target practice he tells you to do it again. Do it twice in a row, three times. You run a mile in 5 mins, not good enough.

But there are times, rare occasions, that he doesn’t push you. He’ll be quiet, arms in front of him, loose, one hand grasping the wrist of the other and he’ll just look at you, something distant in his eyes as you wait for him to demand excellence from you.

He’s noticed it in you, because it’s something that’s still in him. Most days you take his demand with headstrong determination, rising to his challenge with vigor. But there are other days, days like today when you’re on an edge, an edge you don’t know about. And he won’t push you over, because he isn’t certain you’ll come back if he does.

Most days, _you_ need someone to push you do better. Some days you need someone to tell you that you don’t have to be better than you already are.

Today is one of those days.

Billy blinks a couple times, and looks from you to the dummy you’ve put bullets into. 3 to the chest and one to the head. He ducks his head and when he lifts it, he waves you towards him. “Let’s go.” He says, turning on his heel.

You jog after him, snatching your duffel off the bench. “So?”

“What?” he says, pulling his keys out of his coat pocket, switching the light off. He holds the door open for you.

“No words of wisdom, or nitpicking, no subtly hidden insults masquerading behind well-meaning instruction?”

Billy glances at you, “Nope.”

You nod with a there and gone frown, “’Nope’…why do you do this?”

He holds another door open for you, yanks your hood further over your face because he doesn’t want the cameras to get a glimpse of you. “Do what?”

You measure your words as you leave the building, the slightly cooler air a relief to your warm skin. “You hound my ass about small things for weeks at a time, go through everything I do with a fine-tooth comb, and then,” you sigh, and throw an arm out behind you to gesture at the building, “And then you blatantly ignore obvious mistakes, for no reason…”

He scoffs with a chuckle. “Are you saying you want me to tell you everything you do wrong? All the time?”

He unlocks the car and ducks in and you lick your lips before sliding in. “No,” you say, rather quickly, irritated that he assumes you do things wrong all the time. “I just want to know why? Why the random kindness, the uncharacteristic grace?”

He sighs and starts the car, and backs out, twisting in his seat with a hand on the back of yours. He cautiously meets your gaze as he does so. “Sometimes the mood strikes me.”

“Right…” you give him a dead-pan look, and he shoots you a smile, one you’re sure disarms everyone else. To you, it just means he’s hiding something.

“Not buying it, huh?”

You shake your head, and sigh heavily. Billy goes quiet, glancing in the rear-view, and his side mirrors, paying more attention to driving than he needs to. He’s avoiding the topic, and you’re not sure why.

You know he isn’t completely heartless. He’s as asshole 90 percent of the time, but sometimes that other ten percent comes out, and you’ve seen it. It isn’t like it’s some secret.

“Look,” he starts, and you snap your head to regard him, immediately riveted. “As much as it is my job to keep you alive-“

“Oh my God,” you groan, on the defensive about this topic, like you always are. “You were good friends with my brother, that does not make you responsible for me.” Your tone is sharp, mostly with the pain that comes from mentioning your brother.

Billy scowls, his tone waspish. “You’re right, it doesn’t. But I’m looking after you anyway because I need to. Okay?” his jaw is firmly set, his eyes tight, and when he looks at you, there’s a very dim glimmer of something familiar in his eyes. Desperation.

“ _I_ need to.” He enunciates, and flicks his gaze between you and the road, his tongue peeking out to whet his lips. “Keeping you alive is important,” his tone is edged, critical, but there’s a note of lightness in it.

“But you’ve had so much shit taken away from you, Y/N…sometimes, I…” he tails off, his voice lowering to a murmur.

“What?” you ask, teeth in your lip. Memories are drudged up, memories of things you’ve lost, people. Your eyes stubbornly well up with tears, and you bow your head to hide them.

But Billy can read you like an open book. He slides your hood off your head, and buries his hand in your hair on the back of your neck. “Sometimes I feel like I’m doing the same.” He confesses, squeezing gently, and you sniffle slightly.

“You’re not.” You say, idly thinking about the scar you have above your hip, thinking about how he saved your life that night, and nursed you back to health in the following days. “You’re the only thing I have from…before.”

His fingers rub soothingly, his thumb tracing the curve of your skull. “I’m not going anywhere.” He tells you, glancing in your direction to try and catch your eye, but you stare out the window, and he leaves you be for a while.

He untangles his hand from your hair and rests it on your knee. “You hungry?” he asks after a time, and takes a strip littered with restaurants. On purpose, the shit.

“I’m in sweats and a baggy jacket, you’re not taking me to dinner.” You say seriously, but there’s a smile on your lips.

“Oh no. I am, you just get to decide where.” He smirks at you, all manner of cheeky and smug, and playful.

“Dammit, William, noo.” You whine petulantly, and he laughs.

“Alright. We’ll go to-“

“The usual place?” you interrupt him, voice subdued with melancholy nostalgia, and Billy rolls his lips into his mouth while he nods,

“Yeah.” His own smile has lessened, trimmed and bleached with assorted memories of his own. It’s like swallowing honey and then chasing it with poison, strong enough to sting but weak enough to leave the honey room to settle, that how the memories are. “And uh- we have some things to talk about.”

That gets your attention. “What?” you inquire, and he doesn’t answer, just gives you small smile, and dodges the question.

“You need to start carrying that Luger with you, by the way. I found it this morning-“

“On the stand next to the couch.” You finish for him, your tone clipped, and it earns you a raised eyebrow from him as well as a flattened pair of lips, and you exhale sluggishly. “They would’ve just taken it at the door.” You mutter.

Billy squints, “What does that mean ‘they would’ve just taken it at the door’? What door?” He’s incredulous by now, and you groan,

“Is this what we’re gonna do, have a heated Q and A session?” you pinch the bridge of your nose, and shake your head. “I went-“

His mouth drops open, and he shuts you up with one motion. Palm out, pointer finger extended skyward, “You went exactly where I told you not to.”

You shrug a shoulder in tandem with an eyebrow raise, all whoopsie daisy about it. “Advised. You advised me not to get close, and I ignored the advice.”

“Are you-“ He blinks. Looks at you, his eyes comically large, but exceedingly livid. “Are you insane?”

“Hey, I’ve got a bounty I need to collect.” You argue, voice raising just a hair.

He parks the car, engine idling. “And I’ve told you, countless times, you don’t need that shitty job, I will take care of you.” One hand is gripping the steering so hard it creaks, the other is cutting the air in downward strokes, side of his hand parallel to the floor as he grits the words.

“No, I don’t need it. I want it,” You correct him, and then chew the inside of your cheek. “Anyway, you can’t just go around throwing money. Especially if your accounts are-“

“They’re not being monitored,” He says, exasperated because you’ve used this excuse a million times before.

“William. You were good friends with my brother, that much is obvious just from the pictures in the living room- don’t get me started on the social media angle.” You inhale a shuddery breath, and rake a hand back through your hair,

“My brother- my family – was assassinated. Not murdered, assassinated. I wasn’t, by sheer dumb luck and youthful rebellion. I don’t know who the target was in that scenario, if it’s me-“

“Okay.” He relents, tearing the keys out of the ignition with gusto. He could argue this with you until sunrise and he knows that whatever he might say will only go in one ear and out the other. “Okay. Even though you’re being paranoid, and you’re rudely underestimating my ability-“

He glances at you and stops talking.

You’ve your head turned away, a hand over your mouth. He can see your reflection in the window, the quiet tears running down your cheeks, and he tilts his own head away, staring out at the quaint, unobtrusive Thai restaurant on the corner between a laundromat and a video store.

The restaurant has always been here, despite the hardships it’s suffered. They’ve been robbed twice, their windows smashed three times, and they’ve even had a waiter get mugged upon immediately leaving the building.

You, your brother, and himself. This was the place to go for you all, back in the day. Back then, you had just turned old enough to drink, and the owner, a sallow faced, skinny man always gave you a drink on the house. Even after your birthday passed.

The owner’s since passed away, but his tradition hasn’t. His wife took over, and she’s kept it going.

A wan smile flits over his lips. Your table is empty, in the back, next to the kitchen doors that oriental music trickles through amid the clanging of cutlery and dishes, and the roar of fire. Billy drops his chin to his chest,

“Nothing’s going to happen, Y/N,” he murmurs, and listens to you sniffle. He reaches over, swooping hair over your shoulder to get that warm, firm hold on the back of your neck. “Hey, look at me. Look at me,”

When you do he’s more serious than you’ve ever seen him, something cold and dark in his eyes that raises goosebumps on your arms.

“Nothing’s going to happen. To you or me. Okay? I won’t let anything happen.”

You don’t know it, but you’re getting glimpse of the Billy Russo that went overseas, a part of him that never really came back. He’s unpredictable, whip-lash most days, with layer upon layer of emotion hidden underneath thinly veiled benevolence and politeness.

He’s like a rubber band, stretched and stretched and right at the edge of snapping. It’s you that keeps him from snapping, but God forbid- if something ever happened to you…

He’d completely snap.

Billy knows it too. He wonders if you do.

Probably not. You’ve always been kind of blind to his affection. He doesn’t know if you’ve realized that he’s flaccidly pleasant with other people, that he keeps them at bay with pale colored words and easily discernable half-smiles. He doesn’t know if you’ve realized that he doesn’t do that with you.

“Our table’s open,” He says, and swipes the back of his fingers over your damp cheeks. He gives you a soft, questioning look, _You okay?_ He receives a tiny nod from you, one he isn’t sure he believes, but he knows if he coddles you any more tonight he runs the risk of lighting your temper.

Billy flashes you a quick smile, and gets out. He gives you a second, leaving his back to you as long he can: pausing on the sidewalk to look around for unsavory characters, walking slow to the door, opening the door like he has all day.

You slide right passed him when he has it opened far enough.

He smiles at your back. You’ve always bounced back from your emotional moments faster than he expects you to. He’s not sure if that’s a good thing or not.

You both slide into the far corners of opposite sides of your booth, you taking the place of your brother. It’s a little easier to pretend he isn’t gone if you aren’t constantly looking at the spot he should be. The inside of the booth was his, that was _his_ place.

Billy’s quick to order for the both of you, because you always get the same thing. Not because it’s habit, or because the other food is mediocre (it isn’t, it’s the best Thai you’ve ever had), or because you’re unadventurous.

It’s simply become tradition since _he_ died.

Billy fills the silence by talking. Talking about normal things, as many normal things as he can fit into his abnormal days. Car trouble, his favorite coffee shop discontinuing his usual drink, losing a scarf he wore all the time, his phone charger biting the dust, his lamentation about the broken spine of his favorite Dickens novel and you listen with a weak smile.

The time comes when Ms. Juntasa brings out the drinks with the food. Something she’s learned is tradition as well: no drinks before the food arrives.

Billy sends her a charming smile, and a genuine thank you, and she pinches his cheek in response with a teasing remark, “You can’t flatter me, young man. No matter how handsome you are, you aren’t getting free drinks here.”

Billy laughs. “No ma’am.”

You smile, your cheeks high with it, until Ms. Juntasa turns to you, a little glint in her eye,

“Don’t you fall for that pretty face, Y/N.”

You choke on your drink, and splutter, much to the amusement of Billy who throws his head back and laughs heartily.

 You wipe your chin with a napkin, your cheeks ablaze and exclaim, “Mrs. Juntasa!”

 Her wrinkly eyes are crinkled in an impish smile, and she winks at you. “Or do, it’s none of my business.” She retreats from your table, spry and quick for her old age and disappears behind the counter.

“Oh, my God.” You groan, shaking your head with a wry smile, your eyes on your picked at plate.

Billy chuckles in response around the rim of his handless cup which holds Mekong whiskey. “Tradition, Y/N.”

“What tradition is that?” you ask, pointing in the direction she left, implying her harmless teasing.

“Embarrassing you. Someone’s gotta do it,” He smirks at your lingering blush, and holds a hand up in surrender when you chuck a balled-up napkin at his face.

You roll your eyes and take a drink of your rice wine, savoring the smoothness of it. “Like you don’t any chance you get,” You retort, and he shrugs innocently, mixing his rice into the peanut sauce on his plate.

“Okay, so,” you lick your lips, and grab the bottle of wine Mrs. Juntasa left for you. “What did we need to talk about?”

Billy tenses, just a fraction, and then he’s rolling it away with his shoulders. “I…pulled some strings. Got you a new identity, social number, fake backstory-“

“Why?” you interject, close to snapping, and he straightens in his seat, eyebrows twitching,

“Why?” he scoffs, and rubs a hand over his mouth, dawning a sardonic smile. “So you can do something with your life instead of run and hide in shadows. So I can stop worrying that each time I see you will be the last time.” He narrows his eyes at this point, his lips pressed flat in bitterness.

You close your eyes, and sigh heavily, a lump in the back of your throat. You can’t say no, now that he’s already done what he’s done. And if you’re being honest, you’re tired, tired of arguing with him for tonight. You’ve met your limit, and not even the wine in your cup can raise the cap on your limit.

“Thank you…” you say, curling your hands around your cup, staring down into your reflection…

Billy quirks a brow at your sudden change of mood, and takes another sip of his whiskey, peering over the rim of his cup at you. Maybe on days like this he shouldn’t just not push you to be better, maybe he just shouldn’t push you at all.

“Hey,” he says, and stretches an arm across the table to lay a slender-fingered hand over your wrists. “Listen, I-“

The kitchen doors burst open, revealing Mrs. Juntasa carrying a small basket of sweetly colored muffins. She’s wearing a smile that’s serendipitous, but also a degree secretive, and it grows when she sees Billy quickly retract his hand and lean back in his seat, looking like a deer caught in the headlights. 

“Special treat!” she declares, her chestnut colored eyes twinkling gleefully as she puts the wicker basket in the middle of your table.

You look at the colorful muffins, and get a whiff of their sweet, light, airy scent, and look up at her. “You’re putting this on the bill, right?” you say, making clear in your tone that you want to pay for them.

“No.” she says, and waves a hand at you, smiling in humor when you glare at Billy for snatching one up non-chalantly. “Not on the menu.”

“Oh, so we’re the guinea pigs?” Billy says around a mouthful of pink muffin, winking at the disapproving frown you’re shooting at him over the table.

Mrs. Juntasa hums thoughtfully, and looks down at the muffins with something like nostalgia. “You could say that.” She pushes the basket towards you, a warm, welcoming smile prompting you to finally take one.

“They’re good.” Billy announces after he swallows. He gives her a thumbs up and then points at them. “You should definitely put them on the menu.”

That glint in her eye is back. “Oh, no. Like I said: they’re a special treat.”

Billy quirks a brow at her, and throws you a look, but you just shrug as you chew your own mouthful of a sky-blue muffin.

She chuckles quietly and walks away.

“What are these called?” Billy calls after her, picking another up.

“Khanom Tuay Foo.” She answers over her shoulder.

He looks at you again, and you squint at him,

“I don’t know Thai, William.” You point out flatly, and he throws an arm up on the back of his seat,

“Hey, I don’t know everything about you.”

You smile wryly, and sigh. “Yeah. You actually do.”

Billy grins, “Lucky me.” You think he’s being sarcastic, but he’s serious as a heart-attack, and it kills him that you don’t know. Kills him that you’ll probably never know.


	3. Suspension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You get lost in the past quite often, and as much as it feels like a burning trap, it's also a brief reprieve. It's almost easy to forget that he's gone, because Billy isn't. It was package deal, the three of you. Ever since you met Billy, it was the three of you. Like the damn musketeers. Now what, since it's just two of you? Turns out, Billy isn't adverse to taking a trip through memory-lane either. He does so, often, he just never lets you know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo. We're gonna take this story slow, yeah? Hope nobody has a problem with that. Cuz I don't. Also, because reasons, you all have a given last name. Sorry. Not really. It isn't spoken in this chapter though.

_“Right, so, you know how when you go to the beach you end taking half of it home with you?”_

_You quirk a brow, and smile ruefully. “Yeah…”_

_“It’s like that now.” He says, and gestures at himself, up-down with his pointer fingers. “I’m still finding sand in my clothes, in my hair. I wake up and there’s sand in my bed.”_

_“We talking like Wayne’s World all “Cool, sand.” Or is like the movie Dune in your sheets?” you take an obnoxious drink of your milkshake, and he’s half incredulous about it when he shakes his head,_

_“Definitely Dune.”_

_You snort in laughter, your head thrown back, and he joins you, his pearly whites glinting in the sun. He throws an arm around your shoulders and squeezes you into his side,_

_“It’s good to be home.”_

_You hum in agreement. “Yeah, now mom and dad will get off my back for a few weeks,” you reach up to pinch his cheek, “You’re going to be the center of their cashmere, diamond encrusted, high-brow lives.”_

_He chuckles and swats your hand away. “Aren’t I always?” he teases, and you roll your eyes,_

_“You have no idea. You’re all they talk about when you leave, and you’re all they care about when you come back.”_

_“Mm.” he sighs, “That might be stretching it a bit.”_

_You don’t reply, just take another slurp of your milkshake as you and your brother contemplate your words. You both know what you said is true, but admitting it would either make you petulant children or paint your parents as uncompassionate and unbiased. They clearly had a favorite. And it wasn’t you or your younger sister._

_“Well.” Your brother says, and leaves it at that._

_“Yeah.” You agree, and break away to throw your cup in a trashcan. Bees are buzzing around it in droves, and you skip away from it as nonchalantly as you can._

_You fall in step with your brother, or maybe he does with you, force of habit and all that. Either way, he matches your pace, and you get lost in your own thoughts. You tuck your hands in your jacket pockets and take to idly counting all the gum on the park sidewalks that pass under your feet._

_Carlisle his own brand of quiet, appreciative, gentle natured, his movements loose and airy as if he doesn’t wish to intimidate. Because he’s put on a lot of muscle, and there’s power in all of his movements, even the small insignificant ones._

_You don’t know, because he’s keeping it to himself, but he’s on the verge of shedding tears. You see a park and trees, and grass, and dirty sidewalks. But he sees a family on a picnic, a dog on brisk run with his owner, a couple holding hands and conversing warmly with one another, a mother pushing her twins in a stroller…_

_He sees what he sacrificed for._

_And then he looks at you. And he sees who he sacrificed for. See, the people are the what, but you’re the who._

_“Hey,” you say while you sweep your hair up into a messy bun, and he blinks quickly to rid himself of the slight sting in his eyes. “Didn’t you say we were supposed to meet what’s-his-face by the fountain?”_

_“What’s-his-face…” Carlisle parrots you, and then chortles with crinkled eyes. Billy’d get a kick out of that. What’s his face…Carlisle doesn’t think you’ll be so blasé about his friend when you finally meet him. Most women aren’t._

_He isn’t being sexist, or demeaning._

_Billy’s appearance will take you off guard, because Carlisle knows you’re expecting someone big and burly and intimidating, and built like a house with a booming voice. And Billy isn’t any of that._

_If he’s totally transparent…he’s hoping the two of you will hit it off. He thinks you will. Carlisle has stayed out of your personal, romantic business ever since you hit adolescence. He knows better. Now. Back then he didn’t, but he learned right quick that you wouldn’t tolerate his nose in your business where the opposite sex was involved._

_No, you didn’t tolerate his nose at all. You broke it._

_Anyway, he’s digressing._

_Carlisle doesn’t know your current situation. If you’re looking, if you’re secure being single, if you desperately want a companion…_

_He really thinks you and Billy would be good together. Sure, there’s a small age gap, but that doesn’t mean anything. Your own parents are a decade apart, but that’s a nuclear concoction so perhaps he shouldn’t be using them to fortify his bullet points on why you and Billy could definitely be a thing._

_“His name is Billy.” Carlisle says as he spots his friend sitting on the edge of the fountain, hands in his pockets, legs slightly spread, big sunglasses on his face…Carlisle tries not to show his excitement about this first meeting between his two-favorite people._

_“Short for William, I presume?” you brush some wispy tendrils of hair away from your face, and glance at Carlisle, at the dimples trying to make an appearance on his face. “What- what’s that look for?” you ask him, immediately suspicious,_

_And he, “What?! Nothing. No look. I don’t have a look.” He denies profusely, his gait widening a fraction and you narrow your eyes,_

_“No, no no.” you continue, and pick up your step. “I know that look-“_

_“Me too.” A voice adds, smooth and light, and pleasant._

_You turn your head, and find a hipster inclined looking man sitting on the edge of the fountain._

_“That look usually means trouble for people within a 10-foot radius,” he stands, grinning with all the charm and poise of a proud fox, and approaches the two of you._

_You watch with detached awkwardness as they clap each other on the shoulders and then embrace, all macho and ‘No homo’ about it._

_When they break off, Billy takes his sunglasses off and smiles down at you, his coffee-black eyes searing into you, and not from a negative emotion, or even something flirtatious. No, he’s just lively, and giddy, and at peace._

_He holds his hand out for you to shake and opens his mouth to introduce himself when you beat him to the punch,_

_“You’re William Russo, right? I’ve heard- God, I’ve heard a lot about you.” You say the last bit as if you’ve been forced to listen to a history of the stock market in the last decade and not the person in front of you._

_Billy stares down at you. He’s the one caught off-guard. Because…he doesn’t have an effect on you. At all._

_He doesn’t correct you on his name. Doesn’t tell you that everyone calls him Bill, or Billy. No, he lets you call him William._

_“Been talking about me, Car?” Billy’s quick to continue the convo, quick to shake your hand, and slow to let go of it._

_“Hah! Warning her, more like.” Carlisle retorts. He’s full of shit. He’s been doing the exact opposite for months._

_“Unnecessarily.” You roll your eyes, and fully aware of what you’re doing, you put a hand beside your mouth as if you’re telling Carlisle a secret. But you ‘whisper’ far too loud. “He isn’t even that attractive.”_

_Billy feigns offense, putting a hand over his heart in melodrama. “Cold,” he says, with a bright smile._

_“Ice cold.” Carlisle smirks, and gets you in a headlock, much to your chagrin._

And that was how the first meeting between you and Billy went. Pretty bland, but maybe that was a good thing. It would’ve jacked the dynamic up.

You were all a seamless trio, your personalities matching up like puzzle pieces, your ambitions and ideals, and hopes, they all differed. But not enough to create sparks on tinder, just enough of a spark to start a conversation, to lay out a view, painted and sculpted and signed like a final product. You never clashed with one another, just laid down your own feelings and enforced ideas and took a step back to look at the world through a different pair of glasses.

There was this unspoken thing between you and Billy, and there was an unspoken thing about the unspoken thing: you pretended it wasn’t there. And it worked for the tricycle that was the friendship between you all.

When they were both on leave all three of you spent every second that could be spared together. Doing all the things the two of them missed, minus strips clubs, you let them go on their own to those. They needed bro time, right?

Billy’s name and number quickly found a home in your cellphone, and you conversed frequently, about any number of things, except his past, and his tours across the ocean. Those were topics that were no no’s, and you didn’t mind.

He was over, often. Your mother took an immediate shine to him, and he tolerated her over-bearing attention with soft determination. He was a pretty face, and your mother was notoriously weak when it came to those. It was why she married your father. Not love, not even money. Looks.

Billy was taken off his feet when stepped foot in your estate, when he set eyes on the marble columns and granite tile floors, the high ceilings, and spot on busts of obscure Roman figureheads that are a staple of overpriced homes for people that can afford the unnecessary. His head damn near (figuratively) hit the floor when your mother appeared around a corner decked out in enough glittering jewelry it could hail a satellite from space; she was sliced from old money and white privilege and inherent pride, and wore it well.

She was the devil, in cashmere, and silk, and heels as sharp as her tongue.

Oh, but Billy was untouchable, and gave as good as he got. And she enjoyed the challenge of someone who recognized a challenge.

Your father was easier to get along with. He cared for little that wasn’t art, or directly tied to Italy. He talked to Billy once for thirty minutes about the Roman and Greek influences in Italian architecture, and the timeline of such.

Anyway, Billy learned just how high class the life you were born into was, and he kept it under tight lid that he made it his goal to be twice as prolific as your parents. For one reason.

He wanted to give you better than your parents ever could.

Strange, considering you made it clear that you gave less than a shit for the meticulous walls, and floors so reflective you could do your make up in them. You wanted nothing more than to escape from the champagne breakfasts, and wine lunches, the 100-year-old bottle of bourbon at dinner, the imported 50,000-dollar bottle of sake at midnight.

You let your Louis Vuitton collection gather dust in your closet, your heels disappear into the shadows of an untouched shoe shelf, your jewelry dulled from never being worn. There was really one place in the estate that you didn’t feel you needed to escape from: the library.

You and Billy spent a great deal of time in the library. Two floors, stacked floor to ceiling with books from auctions, and clandestine sources, from markets amiable in appearance but malicious in nature. Books from all over the globe, in different languages, some dead.

The ceiling to the library was glass, domed, with a flat skirt outlining it. 70 x 70, black leaded, the glass a milky blue and opaque, the dome sliced into slivers of triangles. It was easily the most impressive part of the library.

The railing for the spiral staircase in the middle of the room was ornate, metallic and shined like polished brass, the column it was attached to was decorated with archaic banners, and wrapped with beads and stones from the Middle East, and silken scarves worn by long deceased royalty of a dynasty or two.

Big armchairs with copper buttons and clawed feet dotted the walkways here and there, and each had a heavy blanket draped over the back of them, hand-sewn and oriental, the dyes deep and dark. Lights were inlayed in the columns that punched through the second floor  walkways, heavy and old-fashioned in appearance, iron and jaggedly shaped, the metal swirled and wrapped, opening like a flower near the top. The glass for them was amber, and glowed warmly like a pulsing heartbeat when they were turned on.

Billy loved to read, as you soon found out, and you loved to oblige him any way you could. The two of you spent hours reading together, curled up in one chair like it was the only option in the whole room, one book in your lap, his on your thigh as he read over your shoulder, unconsciously mumbling words into your ear every now and again.

You’d both read until your muscles cramped, and stretch your legs out, groaning at the numbness and the tingles. And then you’d both chuckle, and settle in again, in a different position. Your legs dangling over the arm of the chair, book leaning against your thighs. His arm wrapped around your shoulders, supporting your neck, book in that hand, looking past your collar-bone with narrowed eyes to read the small font.

You’d only ever stop reading when Carlisle would burst through the heavy mahogany doors on the first floor, arms wide and he’d tilt his head back to bellow into the echo welcoming room,

“Billy, Y/N. This is God speaking. I demand you go into the world,” He’d stride across the immaculate hardwood floors graced with Arabian area rugs and start up the staircase, “And make life destroying decisions.” He’d say when he finally saw you two, completely engrossed your books, and he’d sigh dramatically.

“Seriously. Dad’s inviting his professor- friend, colleague, whatever the Hell they are -over and I don’t want to get roped into their boring as death conversations about the British monarchy, or how everything Italian is actually Roman.” Carlisle was a low-key drama queen, whether he knew it or not was a mystery.

Billy would cave first, and snap his book shut, the sound echoing. “Right. Alcohol, then.” The book would get placed on the quaint end table nearby, and he’d cautiously bend the corner of the page you were on.

Carlisle at this point would already be accepting his victory and plotting the spoils, and would be half-way down the staircase, whistling ‘Hall of the Mountain King’. The library had fantastic acoustics.

“It’ll be here when we get back.” Billy would chuckle into your ear, and ease the book shut.

“My motivation to finish it won’t be though.”

True. You never did finish that book.

“What…why is your face…making that face?”

You look up, and Billy is standing at his counter, leaning against it, a glass of scotch in one hand as he regards you with a cocked brow.

You wave a hand in dismissal with a small smile. “Nothing…did we ever actually finish any of the books we started to read in the library?” You didn’t need to specify what library, it was always just _the library_.

Billy tilts his head, “I can’t say about you, but I did.” He smirks, and you roll your eyes. He takes a sip of his scotch and approaches you sitting on the couch. “Why do you ask?”

You shrug, and he sits down next to you with a small groan. “Do you remember the last one you started?” He asks, throwing an arm up on the back of the couch.

You smile, and nod. “A Tale of Two Cities.” You vaguely remember bits and pieces of the story, and you’re trying to recall if you enjoyed it or not.

“That’s a good one,” he muses, and offers you a drink of his scotch. When you take it, he stands and leaves the room headed in the direction of his bedroom.

You sip at his scotch, and crane your neck. When the sound of rummaging from his bedroom reaches your ears, your curiosity gets the better of you and you get off the couch to investigate. You only make it a few steps when Billy emerges from the soft shadows of his room, a book in hand.

You blink in shock. You know that book.

He’s wearing a sly smile. He holds it out to you when he’s close enough to steal back his glass. “Ta-da.” He swirls the amber liquid, and watches your reaction.

You reach out, hand slightly shaky as your fingertips ghost over the hardback cover of black leather, gold lettering stamped in. You look up at him, a question in your eyes.

“Every story that you started, I finished. Never got around to putting this one back…” Billy glances down into his scotch, and then glances over, his dark eyes roving the cover of the book. “Your spot’s still saved.”

You stare at him. “Wait. You stole books from my dad’s library?” you squint when he chuckles, the smile he wears half incredulous. “Whatever happened to his collected works of Poe?”

He raises his eyebrows. “I brought those back.” He claims, his tone all ‘Now, wait a minute’.

You squint a little more. “Did you…you took them with you overseas.”

He lays a hand on your shoulder. “Okay, we’re getting off topic. I did a nice thing.” He’s wearing a bright smile, completely unfazed about your accurate accusations.

You sigh, and look down at the book in your hand. It’s faint, but you can catch the scent of the library itself coming off the book: sandalwood from the incense that burned 24/7, the pine from the floor cleaner, leather from the chairs and the other books, the dust…

You blink back tears, and tilt your head back to look at him. “You did.” You admit, and reach up to cup his jaw. You get on tip-toes and press a kiss to his cheek.

“You’re welcome,” he murmurs, slipping his arm around your shoulders to pull you in for a hug, and you curl the fingers of your free hand into the fabric of the sweater he’s wearing, you can feel his hip-bone against your knuckles. He rests his chin on the top of your head, and you both jump back through time, reliving all the time in the library you spent together.

You and Billy spend that night on the couch, you curled against his side, and you both read that book you started years ago. He unconsciously mumbles words as he reads, and you smile at the familiarity. You both readjust when your muscles cramp, and then you settle in again, seamlessly.

You fall asleep first. And Billy only realizes when you stop turning pages for the both of you. He smiles, bends the corner of the page (a new spot, further along in the plot), and then puts the book on the back of the couch.

He doesn’t carry you to bed. Instead, he lays down, and tucks you against him, an arm thrown over your waist, and one under your neck to support you. Your head nestles in under his chin, your lips brushing his adam’s apple, his hands trace loose patterns on your back, he hooks one of your ankles under his own…

His eyes slip closed, and he half-expects Carlisle to burst through his front doors with pomp and drama and drag the two of you on a late-night excursion.

_“Billy, Y/N. This is God speaking. I demand you go into the world…”_

His brows furrow when it stays quiet. His arms tighten around you.

“And make life-destroying decisions,” he finishes quietly, and presses his lips into your hair. “Done and done.” He falls asleep frowning.


	4. Heterogeneous Feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ice cubes in whiskey, lamentations over a scratched bar-top, winter in New York so harsh it freezes blood in veins, a boring high-class Christmas party spent avoiding anyone capable of speech, ice-skating for the first time, and origami lilies. As much as he measures the empty spot Carlisle has left in both of your lives, Billy also measures just how much space you occupy. Soon, there won't even be room left for him in his own life.

_“Does she know?”_

_Billy sighs into his glass, fogging it up before he takes a drink. “Know what?” he asks, and puts it down on his damp napkin._

_Carlisle throws his friend a dead-pan look. “Funny, I didn’t even have to say who.”_

_Billy bristles, his eyes narrowing a fraction. “Well, this is the only thing you talk about when it’s the two of us. I’ve recognized the pattern.”_

_Carlisle swirls the ice around his glass of whiskey with a loose movement of his wrist. “I just…” he runs his hand down his face, and scratches at his stubbly jaw. “I don’t get why you two of you are pretending that you’re **just** friends.” _

_Billy inhales a sharp breath. “It’s safer- better that way.”_

_Carlisle scoffs, rolling his deep green eyes. “For who?”_

_Billy snaps his gaze over to Carlisle, anger darkening the already rich hue of his brown eyes. “For her.” He growls, incensed that Carlisle doesn’t understand just how simple the situation really is._

_Carlisle rubs at his eyes with his thumb and index, pinching the bridge of his nose on each pass. “Bill, man…”_

_It all catches up to him in that moment, as he’s sitting on a wobbly stool in a crowded bar that’s using too many artificially colored lights, and speakers that spit more static than they do music._

_His shoulders slump forward, his head ducking as his weary eyes slide closed. He fights off a wave of nausea and mutters,_

_“I need to know at least one good thing can happen for us.”_

_Billy stiffens and glances at his friend, his new posture and the despair in his voice, and Bill’s immediately suspicious. “What are you talking about?”_

_Carlisle lifts his head and runs his eyes along the shelf of alcohol, and catches his own reflection in the mirror that holds the shelves. He looks haggard, his jaw untrimmed and raging with stubbly facial hair, his normally styled hair is loose and left to its wavy desires, there are dark bags under his eyes from many nights of not sleeping._

_He looks like a dead man walking._

_Not far from the truth._

_He turns his head away, and looks down the bar at the rest of the patrons, he’s not a little surprised that he mimics them in manner and appearance._

_“Car, what’s going on?”_

_He looks down into his glass, the altering sizes of the ice cubes in his whiskey as they melt. “Do me a favor,”_

_Carlisle won’t meet Billy’s eyes, and Billy is unnerved by it. Something about Carlisle: he always, **always**_ **,** _looks someone in the eye. It’s a part of his upbringing, a part of his inherent nature to make people feel worthy and appreciated, and a very large part of him that’s pride mixed with courage._

_“Sure. Name it.” Billy says, meaning the promise. There are three people in Billy’s life that mean anything to him. But only two that he would sacrifice everything for._

_“I need you to look after her.”_

_Billy straightens in his seat. “You say that like you’re not going to be able to.”_

_Carlisle sighs, and looks side-long at Billy. “I’m not invincible, I’m not going to be around forever.”_

_Billy stares at Carlisle, feeling there’s something else he isn’t being told. “Neither am I.” Billy points out, and takes a swig of his bourbon._

_Carlisle shakes his head, and rakes a hand back through his hair when tendrils of it flop down into his eyes. “No, but you’ll outlive me.”_

_Now Billy’s frowning. Hard. “Hey,” he claps a hand on his friend’s shoulder, “Seriously, what the hell’s going on?”_

_Carlisle whets his lips, and swirls the whiskey in his glass again. “I guess it’s just everything…you know everything changes, everything stays the same.”_

_Billy squeezes Carlisle’s shoulder, “Yeah. I do know.” He gives Carlisle a small jostle and lets go, staring into his own glass. “She ever give you that look?”_

_Carlisle closes his eyes, and nods. “Yeah. I get it a lot more, nowadays.”_

_Billy sighs. “I always think I have it locked down. But I’ll come back from spacing out- one second is all I’m gone, I swear -and she’ll just be looking at me like I’ve-“_

_“Broken her heart.” Carlisle interrupts, and sighs heavily. “Yeah…”_

_Billy throws back the last of his bourbon, and flips his glass over. “So God forbid her heart ever actually ends up in my hands, Carlisle.”_

_“You’re an idiot. You trying to tell me you’d treat her heart like anything other than fragile glass?” Carlisle scoffs, picks up his whiskey and rolls his eyes and points at him with that same hand. “Bull.”_

_“Maybe…” Billy starts folding his napkin, “But it wouldn’t matter. The shit I’ve done, Carlisle…”_

_“Isn’t anything she’d hold against you. C’mon, who do you think we’re talking about here?” Carlisle smiles faintly, thinking about the tight-knit friendship between you and Billy, the stronger than steel connection you both have. Sometimes he thinks you and Billy might be closer than you and him. Sometimes._

_“That’s the thing. She deserves better than that.” Billy sighs, long-suffering and heavy chested about it, and he thinks about getting another drink but he looks at his watch and decides better. “Ah, we’re a couple of assholes and she has no idea.”_

_Carlisle snorts sardonically, his vaguely heart-shaped lips twitching with a smile. “No, she knows.”_

_Billy blinks, mildly surprised. Seconds pass, and Billy lets it sink in. “Well, she knows you’re an asshole.” He aims for humor, and lands a bull’s-eye._

_Carlisle smirks, laughing lines appearing at one corner of his mouth. “Yeah, you’re in the clear. Got her fooled, Russo.” He mocks, good natured._

_Billy laughs through his nose, and looks at his watch again. “We gotta get a move on. Don’t want to keep her waiting.” He reaches into his pocket and lays a 50 on the bar between them, and Carlisle makes no mention of the money, of insisting that he pay for the drinks, and he doesn’t thank Bill._

_No need. There comes a point in a friendship where anything sacrificed is appreciated, expected, and returned in full with no labor of debt or weight of burden. A perfect balance of give and take with no price tags attached._

_Carlisle finishes his whiskey, ice cubes settling in the bottom of the glass in fine chips and slivers. “Let me ask you something,” Carlisle says as Billy stands, wrapping his scarf around his neck. Carlisle’s eyes slide over the bar to rest on the napkin that Billy was folding; a tiny grin lifts his lips. A lily. He knows exactly what- or who, rather -Billy was thinking of when he folded it._

_“What’s that?” Billy says, adjusting the collar of his tweed winter coat underneath his scarf._

_Carlisle smirks. “Have you ever actually ice-skated before?”_

_Billy rolls his eyes, and takes his gloves from his coat pocket. “Please. How hard can it be?”_

_Carlisle rolls his lips into his mouth, already anticipating the disaster this is going to be. He’s going to have ammo against Billy for a while. “Two things: One, I’m going to get this on video,”_

_Billy shoots his eyes skyward, and sighs. “Going to be a boring video.”_

_Carlisle slides off his stool, and straightens his own coat, bulky, dark green, but lined on the inside with fur. He’s been a few degrees from sweating for the past hour. “And two: You can’t say no to her, can you?”_

_Billy tsks at the teasing that doesn’t really qualify as teasing, seeing as how- “You can’t either.”_

_Carlisle turns the collar of his coat up, and beams a white-toothed smile, “I’ve never really tried.”_

_They leave the bar, footsteps in tandem, breath clouding in short intervals, snow crunching under their shoes. Streets are slick with melted snow, and tires hiss as they pass over the sleek tarmac, kicking up ice-cold water in their wake. Slush is gathered along the curbside, brown and gritty with dirt, and consistent along every sidewalk in New York._

_Snow falls heavily, in giant globby flakes that stick to everything. They blanket every chilled surface, and melt on everything that has a pulse, or that spits heat, like the grates to sewers and subway systems, and the windows of cars that have heat on full-blast._

_Lights are aglow on every avenue, blinking with cheerful holiday glee on lamp-posts and shop fronts, colorful or white, the city shines with it all. And every business open is playing Christmas music, you can catch a snatch of it when people come and go from places, smiling and carefree. Sidewalks are crowded with people lugging giftbags, and carrying paper cups from cafes all over New York, the jubilee and inherent peace of the holiday season oozes from them in waves, makes the rampant crime seem like coincidence- like a string of bad days egged on by alcohol that suddenly end when there’s no more liquor left in the cabinet._

_Billy and Carlisle walk a few blocks in silence, drinking in the city, the oblivious nature of people, the loose indifference that hangs like a cloud above everyone’s heads simply because it’s December, because pretty lights, and peppermint mochas, and Dean Martin on the radio. It’s all so alive and far-removed from the bloody nature they had to adopt overseas, it throws them a few inches off balance._

_“You know,” Carlisle says, half-yelling to be heard over traffic, and the biting wind, and Billy turns his head towards him. “We do this every year, me and her. Since we were kids, it’s uh- it’s unspoken tradition.”_

_Billy sniffles, his nose chilled solid. “Is coffee afterwards part of the tradition?” he asks, his cheeks stinging with the cold._

_Carlisle smiles softly. “Hot chocolate,” he corrects. “It is, after all, the holiday season.” Carlisle is used to the cold, but he wishes he hadn’t made the choice to shave last week. His face is half-numb, and his fingers are icicles in his coat pockets._

_“I missed this, last year.” Carlisle says, sniffing. “I was overseas…traded sand for snow, gunfire for car horns and screaming for Christmas carols.”_

_Billy purses his lips, “Yeah…I spent half the day with the Castles, and then I smoochzed the ever-loving fuck out of the Winbrook estate and all it had to offer.”_

_Carlisle scoffs. “How was Christmas with my family?” he asks, not exactly sore that he missed out on the dryness of gift-giving. The extravagant, unnecessary purchases of designer clothes and watches, the tight-lipped smiles of pretending to be grateful, even though Elise knows that neither of her children need or want to live as high-class as the life they were born into._

_That’s the thing about Elise: she knows what people want, but she doesn’t care. She knows what she wants, and uses the scope of her own preferences and ideals to purchase and coax amiability out of others. She’s tried for years to do it with her own children._

_It’s never worked, but buying respect and attention is the only way she knows how to live. She knows neither of her eldest children give one solid shit about the presents she insists on them every year, but she just can’t see past her own shallow wants._

_“Oh, you know. I brought wine; that’s the fee to enter, isn’t it?” Billy jokes and Carlisle chuckles with an expression that says ‘sounds about right’ and Billy continues. “Your mother shamelessly flirted with me, like always, your father sat in his lounge chair nursing an artisan crafted whiskey- Italian-“_

_“Or Roman, technically,” Carlisle interjects because according to his father ‘Everything Italian is Roman’, and Billy nods, wagging his index finger in Carlisle’s direction to wordlessly say ‘You. Oh, you.’_

_“Claire spent the night at the brand new grand piano they got her, red bow still attached, and played everything from Mozart to the Beatles, completely ignoring every single one of your dad’s requests with an expertly executed deaf ear,”_

_Carlisle smiles secretively, head ducked. You and Billy are fantastic story tellers, but he guesses you two would be with how much time you spend reading._

_“Distant family of yours drifted into and out of all the rooms and crowded the hallways like well-dressed statues, each with a wine glass permanently fixed to their palms. So much silk, Carlisle, and fur. God, every woman had some kind of dead animal draped around their necks like it was an obscure stamp for the elegant and rich.”_

_Carlisle can practically see it in his mind’s eye, the light glinting off of crystal glass rims, the thick fur of fox and ermine, the polished wingtips of men’s shoes, the faux pas of laughs that curl around corners and up stairs, the jangle of jewelry on smooth wrists, the self-important gleam of light on red painted lips that smile in fake demure fashion._

_He can hear the piano, see Claire’s fingers dance across the keys with precise, practiced ease. He can see his mother entertaining family, throwing out compliments to ease the passive-aggressive insults she delivered seconds before. He can see his father, not all concerned with the party, just content to sit in his chair, one leg over the other, glass of whiskey cradled in his hand that hangs over the arm rest._

_“Me and Y/N followed suit, drifting from room to room, mostly to avoid your mother. We stayed on the sides and angled ourselves away from the center of rooms, intent on being present but unapproachable, an expected and appropriate amount of quiet import and youthful arrogance. We were all at once too above the tepid nature of vague names and loose introductions, and in over our heads because we couldn’t be bothered to make any attempt to impress.”_

_They’re close to the park where they’re supposed to meet you, and Carlisle’s completely forgotten how cold he is, brought in to the tale of last year’s Christmas at the expert oration of Billy Russo. The city ambience has quieted for him, Billy’s voice has smoothly overtaken the chaos._

_“We spent a great deal of that night becoming acquainted with various labels of wine, and flavors of whiskey, it helped take the edge off the callous air that trailed after your family and dimmed the inadvertent sting of venom that dripped from their tongues. Many of them asked about you, and when it was found that we served together, we not only had to avoid your mother but every one of your distant relation that had, at one time or another, served. It was nearly impossible to walk ten feet without meeting the eyes of someone who desired a conversation they believed garnered an immediate kinship based on our trips overseas.”_

_Billy’s lost in his own story telling, brown eyes looking around the park, but not really seeing. You’ve spotted them, but they haven’t seen you yet._

_“The night ran long, too long. And we had had our fill of stiff backed regality before the hour even ran into double digits. So we hid in the quiet dark of your father’s study. The one place in the estate that was off-limits to guests, and your sister, with drama you’d appreciate, collapsed on the leather brass-buttoned loveseat soaked in the scent of Arturo Fuente cigars with a relieved sigh that seemed to come straight from her soul. We stayed in the safety of the study for the rest of the night, glancing every so often at the doors when footsteps would pass by, we talked quietly, helped ourselves to the glass decanter of whiskey on the desk, and fought off sleep until the estate went wholly silent. And instead of sleeping, we left, and walked the streets of New York in the bitter cold, untouched by the weather because our blood was still buzzing with alcohol. We ended up here, leaning against that railing, watching people skate across the milky expanse of the pond, scarves flapping behind them. We stayed until sunrise, and made our way back to the estate frozen to the bone, but somehow content with it all.”_

_Billy and Carlisle stop walking at a broad intersection of the brick-paved walkway that weaves around the pond, and they both soak in the words of his tale, Billy touched with nostalgia, and Carlisle with distant respect, a faint longing to have been part of this night. But he knows, had he been there, it would have been different. And somehow, the thought of that night being any different than it was seems wrong, seems out of order. There’s a quiet sanctity to this memory that Billy’s sharing, and Carlisle is appreciative of it, grateful for it. That there is someone else who holds your existence in high regard, that covets every memory of you with boundless affection and gold-plated protectiveness._

_He isn’t worried anymore, about when he’s gone. He knows you’ll be okay. Billy will take care of you, look after you. No matter what. Of that, he’s certain._

_“Hey, took you two long enough.”_

_They both turn at the sound of your voice, and adorn matching looks of quiet affection._

_It stops you half-short, but you recover quickly. “Alright, so I brought the skates,” you say, and reach into the duffle bag swinging your shoulder. You hand Billy his pair first and look at Carlisle, his red ears and wind-stung cheeks, his hands in his pockets, and you smirk._

_“And I brought warm things because it looks like neither of you remember just how cold New York is during winter,” you chastise lightly, and pull out a pair of gloves for Carlisle as well as a wool-knit hat that will cover his ears, complete with long braided tails adorned with fluff balls on the ends._

_“Ah!” he exclaims and pulls the gloves on quick as a flash. “You’re a damn goddess!” he says and grabs your face to plant an exuberant kiss to your temple, and you laugh._

_He tugs on his hat and groans at the immediate warmth his ears feel. Without waiting for you, he shoves a hand into your duffle and drags his own pair of skates out. “I’ll catch you losers on the ice. Gonna show those Bambi legged kids what poetry in motion looks like!” he yells over his shoulder as he runs towards the pond, his green eyes bright and twinkling with childish glee._

_“Sometimes I can’t believe the two of you are related,” Billy remarks, a smile crinkling his eyes, and you can only agree with him._

_“Okay,” you say and walk towards a bench next to the railing of the pond. Billy follows, a brow quirked. “So, Carlisle sold you out. Told me you’ve never been ice-skating before.”_

_Billy scoffs, his mouth dropped open, and looks towards the pond where Carlisle is gracefully sliding across the ice, spinning and twisting and looping around people backwards, his hands in his pockets._

_Billy throws up his hands, “How did he even know?”_

_“Beats me. But anyway, the most important part of it is keeping most of your weight on the balls of your feet, and for now, keep your arms out a little for extra balance.” You coach him as he takes his shoes off and trades them for the skates, and you follow suit._

_Billy nods, and peers over his shoulder at Carlisle, watching his friend traverse the ice in smooth strikes, long and fluid, his skates cutting perfect lines in the frozen surface._

_“Right,” you say, and reach back into the duffle bag for the beanie you got Billy. Maroon, thick, double-layered, and goes on easy as you slide it onto his head, careful of his hair. You tug it down to cover his ears, “So, you ready?”_

_Billy smirks, cocky. “More than.”_

_You roll your eyes, “Careful, Russo. You don’t respect the ice it’ll put you on your ass.”_

_He reaches behind him for the railing of the pond, and stands. In a mere four steps, the total amount it takes to get on the ice, Billy Russo realizes that there is at least one thing in this world that cannot be conquered by his good looks and charm, and he’s standing on it, immoveable with a death-grip on the iron fence at his side._

_“First things first, William, unlock those knees.” You say at his other side, and he looks down at you side-long._

_“You’re not going to give me shit?” He asks, loosening the joints of his knees, letting them bend a little._

_You shake your head, “You kidding me? First time I tried ice-skating I fell flat on my ass, knocked the back of my head into the ice, got myself a nice concussion.” You rub the back of your head with the memory, and wince a little._

_Billy frowns, determined not to do that. He shifts his weight to his heels like you told him to do, and feels immediately more stable._

_“For now, just keep a loose grip on the rail until you get a handle on your balance,” you say, and tuck your hands into your pockets. You skate a few feet ahead, giving a demonstration of how to move in the skates, and he mimics you, glaring at the ice, convinced it’s going to grow a hand and trip him._

_You guys get half way around the pond when he finally gets the hang of it and lets go with a tremendous sigh._

_You clap, and grin, and he beams proudly. Until Carlisle swoops in a graceful arc and wraps an arm around your waist, spinning you with him in tight, fast circles and you shriek in delight. Billy scowls mildly, knowing it’s a quiet way that Carlisle’s using to mock him with._

_“Well done, Russo. You’ve graduated from the training wheels.” Carlisle smirks and twirls you, extending his arm and you twist from his grip, rotating from the momentum, your skates gliding smoothly with the motion._

_“Y/N, what happened the first time he tried ice-skating?” Billy asks you, his eyes cat-like as they bore into his overly smug friend._

_Carlisle’s smile falls right off his face, and that’s answer enough for Billy. “That’s what I thought, ass-hat.”_

_Carlisle gasps in fake horror. “Ass-hat? Y/N, you hear what he said about the hat you bought me?”_

_“Nope, didn’t hear a word.” You say as you rotate in a small, slow circle, your eyes closed, head tilted slightly back, and Carlisle and Billy both smile at you._

_Carlisle shoots Billy a limp salute, and skates off towards the opposite end of the pond. Billy throws a faint smile at the eldest Winbrook’s back, and then he looks at you._

_You’ve just turned when a pair of hands grab at your forearms, loosely, and the rotation continues, seamlessly. You open your eyes to find a pair of coffee-dark ones peering down at you, glimmering in the lights that are draped from the railing’s posts._

_“Look at you,” you praise him, with a soft smile, and he returns it._

_“Look at **you** ,” he retorts, his eyes crinkling at the edges as he looks down the foot of height difference between you. Ah, there it is. That unspoken thing. It makes him light-headed, sometimes. _

_Wordlessly, you take his left hand in your right, and turn. You keep the pace slow, smooth so he doesn’t have to move much, just to keep his balance, and start an easy lap around the pond. He matches your strokes soon enough, and is beside you, keeping time, and skating with muscle memory._

_Other people pass you by, chattering and laughing, and making a ruckus. Children squeal and race each other, their eyes alight in competition. Older couples amble along, arm in arm, and converse in quiet murmurs._

_“Thank you,” He says, quite out of the blue, and you swivel your head to look up at him, your eyebrows raised._

_“For what?” you ask, and he grins down at you, squeezing your hand,_

_“Letting me in on this. This is your tradition, right?” He nods in the direction of Carlisle who’s skating backwards away from a group of children that have taken to chasing him for some reason._

_“Yeah,” you look at your brother and beam as bright as the pine tree that’s been decorated for this public past-time. “But we wouldn’t let anyone else in on it.”_

_Billy blinks at the confession, and feels a surge of humility. No one else. Not even your little sister. But you’d let him in, someone who isn’t even blood to you. Quite suddenly, he feels the need to deserve it._

_“Jesus, you guys are putting me to sleep.” Carlisle arrives at Billy’s right side, and unabashedly slips his own through Billy’s, linking their elbows._

_“Don’t-“ Billy warns, but he’s too late._

_Carlisle takes off, and Billy’s hand tightens in your own, and you laugh, matching Carlisle’s speed to keep the balance and weight even between all three of you._

_“F-fuck you guys!” Billy exclaims, and you and Carlisle howl with laughter. Billy’s skates scramble to meet the pace, and try to keep the strikes smooth, but they’re hurried and uneven._

_Luckily, you and Carlisle have a strong hold on him._

You still do, he muses as he watches you squint at your phone, reading the directions of a recipe.

You and Carlisle had him completely bewitched, wrapped around your fingers. But you kept him grounded, kept him sane. Made him feel…wanted.

You still do.

Billy twitches a weak smile, and looks down at the coffee table, at the sheet music you laid there five minutes ago to start dinner. The violin sits in its case a few feet away, leaning against the other end of the couch.

He picks up the paper, and starts folding.

You paw around Billy’s kitchen for measuring cups, patting the insides of drawers as you continue reading the recipe on your phone. No way are you winging the spices on this seafood dish, not with how expensive salmon is this time of year. The recipe is pretty cut and dry, the only thing you really need to know is the spices, and the measurements thereof, as well the complimenting lemon.

Having memorized the amounts, you put your phone down, and give your whole attention to finding his damn measuring cups. You know he doesn’t spend a lot of time at home, but still.

Billy stands from his place at the couch, and walks towards you, folded sheet music in hand. “What are you doing?” he asks you, cocking an eyebrow at you bent over at the hip to peer into the back of one of his kitchen drawers.

You huff a sigh, and stand. “I’m trying to find-“ you stop mid-sentence. He’s practically on your toes, holding something chest-level in between his thumb and index finger. It’s your sheet music. But he’s folded it into a flower of some sort.

He glances at the counter, at the spices you have laid out, the cooking oils, and the sauces and gathers a guess. “The measuring cups?”

You nod. “Uh- yeah.”

He smiles. “Here, you take this. And I will find the cups.” He offers, and brushes past you with a hand on your hip when you take it from him. “Thing about short people,” he says, and stops near the wall where hooks are drilled in. “They don’t really ever look up when trying to find things.” He gives you a sweet smile as he takes the measuring cups off the hook at eye-level.

You glare mildly at him, and poke your tongue around your cheek. “Ha-ha.” You dead-pan, and he chortles.

He drops the cups onto the cutting board, and opens the fridge. He takes two things out: a bag of asparagus, and a case of beer. He rolls the sleeves of his sweater up to his elbows, and settles into his self-imposed task of preparing a side dish.

You’re both quiet with your separate task, companionable in the silence. You drink that in, because lately, the two of you seem to be at one another’s throats at every turn. Your eyes drift to the folded sheet music, the flower he turned it into.

“What is it?” you ask after a time, and he grunts in question at you. “The flower.” You clarify, and he hums in acknowledgment.

“Lily. It’s a lily.” He says, twisting the cap off a beer. He hands it to you, and watches as you flip the salmon with one hand, and take a drink with the other. He about asks you if you know what lilies stand for, but as he leans into the counter and drags his gaze over your profile, he makes the independent decision that he’ll never put you in that position.

If it were to ever happen…he’d let it be because of you.


	5. Sed Unum Separatum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a balance in it all. He sees that, but he has to wonder if you do? It isn't any mistake that things have turned out the way they did, it was always going to end up like this. It couldn't have been anyone else. Being in the shadows serves him well, but if only he wasn't serving someone else in those shadows....he'd have almost no regrets. You're alive, heart beating, and his sacrifice seems little compared to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, there. Have some mystery, have some gloomy stuff. Have a little angst, and have Billy pining after you. So, I listened to some music while writing this chapter, as well ambiance from the Brooklyn Bridge because it fit, I guess. 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2n0d787aByk 
> 
> Yeah, for those of you that will copy and paste and follow the address- yeah, I'm a nerd. I play video games. But this music though....

The doors to the estate swing open on shrill hinges that speak of their protest at use. The foyer is pitch dark, and the air is stale and dry. Dust billows underneath quiet, soft soled shoes that impede on the solitude of the estate with authoritative claim.

It’s been almost two years since the incident here, and yet nothing about the place has changed. It hasn’t been put up for sale, and that’s his doing. These walls were made for nothing else than to cage and secure the history of the Winbrook line, no one else could make a living here.  No one else could make this hollow building a home.

The stature of the Winbrooks was soaked into the walls, their stiff regality, the arrogance and cold-hearted nature that was as distinctive as the fine cloths they adorned for every social outing. Saccharine scents are soaked into the marble, the porous surface of columns and the wood of the floors and walls and railings of staircases. A mixture of fine wine, designer perfume, brand-name cigars and dust are the smells that waft through the wide halls and high-ceilinged rooms.

The power and other utilities have long since been turned off, but he can navigate effortlessly around bulky ornate end tables and pedestals holding vases of withered bouquets. He’s unfazed with the familiarity, the almost welcoming feeling that comes from all the furnishings and décor. He thought, by now at least, he’d feel something walking through these hallways, trailing his fingers on the cherry-wood paneling. But he doesn’t.

Nothing dredges up anything resembling feelings.

Everything is cloaked in a thick layer of dust, untouched and forgotten for a year and a half straight. The only thing that interrupts a portion of the dust are his footprints. He makes a lap around the first floor, stopping at every room to peer inside, standing on the threshold but never entering. He closes every door behind him.

He pauses at the staircase in the main hallway, just opposite the double doors of Charles’ study, and one of the many sitting rooms that reside directly across from the stairs themselves.

There are dark marks on the stairs, black in the near dark. But he knows what they are. Footprints. A pair of boots, heeled. From a recognizable brand, a distinct tread…

These were your boot prints.

They skip steps going down, because you had been in a hurry, and for good reason. What you had tracked down the pristine steps was nothing other than blood.

The stairs had never been cleaned because the estate was promptly locked up and off-limits to people. Same with the mess upstairs, it’s all still there. Just as ghastly and dark as the night it happened. The Winbrooks were built on old money, cold propriety, and sharp tragedy that couldn’t be overcome with their influence and wealth, or their talents.

It always caught up to them.

He stands at the bottom of the steps, a white-gloved hand resting on the banister as he peers up into the darkness, at the small sliver of silver moonlight that sneaks through a break in the thick black curtains of the fixed window at the height of the second-floor. The wind howls outside, ghostly and foreboding.

The tang of iron has dissipated. But he remembers exactly how it smelled. He still smells it. Even after all this time.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget.

He turns, and heads toward the south wing of the estate. To the main sitting room.

The curtains are drawn in here too. But all of the windows are covered. A small measure taken to ensure a sense of privacy and respect for the deceased family, some kind of minor precaution against the possibility of burglary.

But there’s little worry for that. What happened here was so morbid, so raw and soul-sucking no one has come near the estate once since it happened. A heavy air of taboo and macabre has settled around the mention of the Winbrook name and the estate itself. It’s become the dark piece of gossip that people drag up when a lull in conversation happens.

It’s still talked about.

On his way here, he heard a couple of young college students discussing the tragedy of what happened in hushed tones, secretive, but somehow fascinated in the same token. Horror has captured and always captivated the human mind, throw some despair in and you’ve got an enraptured audience.

But no one is so caught and riveted as the one that committed the horror itself. It’s why he shows up every few weeks and walks the floors, and stands in the sitting room with the grand piano, white keys smeared (at one time) with blood. Now, the blood is hard and black and has stained the teeth of the piano.

He sat here, the night it happened. _Right after_ it happened, and he stared blankly at the sheet music in front of him. It’s still there, now yellowed and brittle from time, and gritty with dust. He sat trance-like for a long time, and only snapped out of it when the grandfather clock on the other side of the room chimed at the twelfth hour.

Like it is now.

He sits down to play. His hands don’t shake anymore.

The piano is out of tune, but the off-kilter notes compliment the atmosphere, draw into sharp focus how empty the house is, how dead it all is. He doesn’t miss a note, doesn’t stutter. He pauses in all the right places, drags the right notes out, and he closes his eyes.

That night, it rained and thunder rumbled like a deep growl from within a barrell-chested dog. The thunder and interspersed lightning helped to cover his footsteps that night as he crept down the hallway, avoiding all the floorboards that creak. Lightning served to illuminate his way to the beds where sleeping figures laid, blissfully unaware of how near death was.

His hands shook that night, though he was practiced, though he had done that sort of thing countless times before. The flavor of the task was different, and he supposes, now, he couldn’t really have approached it with detached logic. It was just impossible at the time.

He’s certain that if he had to do it again, today, his hands would shake again. But the deed is done, and it can’t be changed. He’s made peace with it.

It was mercy. What he did that night. Because had he spared them, something much worse would have happened. You escaped the blade of his knife that night, dodged the bullet from his silenced gun, so to speak.

You had snuck out to spend time with Billy. He was going away on a business trip the next day and wouldn’t be back for a few weeks. He had a company to run, after all, he couldn’t always sit behind a desk and shoot orders at people. Sometimes he had to make an appearance.

He knew you weren’t there. But that was the plan. For you to be out of the house when it happened.

It was negotiated that way. All the Winbrooks, save you, would be killed that night.

Occasionally, he wonders if you search for answers. Or if you’d rather leave the terror of that night behind. The money left to you hasn’t been touched, and he can’t fathom why. It was enough money to accommodate you, and probably ten other people for the rest of your lives.

Why weren’t you using it?

It wasn’t as if anyone was after you.

Not maliciously, anyway.

He’s kept an eye on you, all this time. Mostly out of curiosity. You seem alright, everything considered. Your relationship with Billy still stands, but not as straight.

He opens his eyes, dark lashes fanning down in slow blinks. His hands have stilled. He has to leave soon, get on a plane to go halfway around the world and cut down some crime lord in Northern Russia that’s gotten a hand on delicate information.

It’s a pity. He quite enjoys winter in New York.

He stands, and the piano bench creaks. He drifts out of the room, gait measured and light, languid. He’s a specter of stark white amid the encroaching shadows. His eyes are vacant of emotion, his lips flat. The estate, once breathing with light and splendor has decayed into a shadow, a skeleton of its former glory. If he could…he’d burn it all down.

He slips out the front doors fluidly, and stands on the patio underneath the covering of the second-floor balcony to breathe in the scent of the approaching storm. It hasn’t snowed yet, which is odd for New York, but he hasn’t room to complain.

Hedges flank the patio, overgrown and misshapen, and grass sits limp in long tendrils, dead and brown. The gravel driveway is sparse of rocks after so many rains and no one bothering to fill it with more gravel.

He cares not. For he’s dead to it all. Still, it is a mild shame: the estate was gorgeous.

There will be no Christmas party at the Winbrook estate this year, just like last year. He makes his way down the steps, adjusting his white trench coat around his frame to guard against the wind. He glances over his shoulder as he walks, taking in the dark windows that gape at him like soulless eyes, like he was the one that took the soul of the estate and left it bare.

The first drops of a heavy rain fall, spattering his face with ice-cold chill. A droplet trails down his cheekbone, freezing his skin in the process. He puts the estate behind him, and looks ahead down the shadowed driveway that still bears the vague divots from tires: police cruisers, and ambulances from the night it occurred.

The front gate is chained, locked. But he has the key and he lets himself out. His car is waiting for him at the end, sleek but unassuming. As he drives away, his fingers mimic a song on the steering wheel. He pretends that they don’t tremble.

A few miles away, inside the warmth of Billy’s apartment, you stand at a window and stare out at the street below, your arms folded around yourself. Goosebumps raise on your skin, and you ignore the pallid reflection of your own face in the pane.

You don’t cry about it anymore when it wakes you in the middle of the night, though the memory is still just as sharp, and the terror fresh. You’ve learned to accept it. It can’t be changed. It claws at you, but you’ve shed enough angry tears over it. Tears won’t solve anything.

“Hey.” Billy says, leaning against the doorframe of his bedroom, his eyes groggy with sleep. “You okay?”

You don’t respond for a long time, lost as you are in your own musings, in the haze of a harsh memory. It’s been a while since you’ve dreamed of that night, and it steals your sleep, but nothing else. That’s all you let it take from you.

You’ve no idea who was responsible, why your family was targeted. And why were you allowed to fly under the radar? Why were you spared from their horrendous fate? You’ve chased these questions around your head relentlessly, arriving at dead-ends for every query.

Billy lays a hand on one of your shoulder blades, fingers tentative as they rub back and forth. You turn slowly, and his hand slides from your back to your upper arm, palm warm and soft, those long fingers curled gently.

You look up at him and he swallows quickly.

Your eyes are blank, distant, cold. He cups the side of your face, his thumb brushing the very faint crescent shape of a dark bag underneath your eye. You haven’t been sleeping much, he’s noticed. And he isn’t surprised. You’ve more or less healed from that injury and he’s sure you’re itching to get back out there.

He knows you’ve been looking answers. And he knows you won’t find any. Which is a very large factor in why he argues that you let it go and start over. Start a new life. One that’s safe from the danger you throw yourself into. A life he’s a part of.

Anymore, he just gets short text messages from you, sometimes weeks apart. Or, he gets a phone call from you because you’ve gotten in over your head and are banged up bad enough to need his help. Every time you call him his heart hammers in his chest and his jaw clenches in nausea because he knows you’re hurt bad…knows it’s very possible that he might lose you.

The thought makes his breathing hitch audibly, and the sound is enough to tear you from your mind and land you right in the present.

Billy takes in the surprise in your eyes, and smiles softly, relieved. “Hey there. Welcome back,” he murmurs, and you drop your gaze to his jaw and sigh raggedly,

“What are you doing up?” you ask him, glazing over the topic at hand, and take half a step forward to lean into him.

Billy wraps an arm around your shoulder and drops his chin on top of your head. “You’re not half as quiet as you think you are.” Your feet slapping on the slate of the apartment floor was lough enough to wake the dead, and he’s just a light sleeper. He laid in bed, waiting to hear your footsteps to retreat back to your room, when ten minutes passed and you hadn’t returned his curiosity had gotten the best of him.

You hum into his chest, your eyelids drooping. “I don’t know if I can go back to sleep.” You say, and find your words truthful. You’re the kind of tired where laying down sounds nice, but you just know that you won’t be able to nod off.

Billy rumbles an agreeable sound. “Me either. Lay down with me?” he asks the question softly, as if he doesn’t know what he’s going to do if you say no. He’s half lying. He probably could fall asleep, but he’s going to try like Hell not to.

He has this feeling, right? This deep pitted sinking feeling in his stomach that you’re going to disappear on him. It’s like a heavy blanket around his shoulders that he can’t shrug off, and thin sheets tangling his feet that he can’t kick away.

Rain is pouring in torrents, beating on his windows like someone in the middle of an emergency, and he thinks, _Surely you won’t leave in this kind of weather._

But he’s just soothing himself, stealing time and contact, and keeping space minimal between you as you both slide underneath his silk sheets. There’s a hesitation in the moment that you both get your legs under, when you’re half-turned away from each other, and it’s raspy contemplation, like sandpaper on your knuckles as you repeat an apology over and over in your head to him.

And he’s valiantly denying your imminent departure, ignoring that tugging weight between his shoulders that’s telling him he should do something other than pretend that everything is fine and in working order. He should turn on the bedside lamp, sit up with his back against the wall and he should play the cards he’s been holding for months, _for years_ , he should make you play yours. He should…

He should lay out all the things he knows would free you, in spite of the certainty that doing so would damn him.

He wants to believe there’s a silver lining for the both of you, waiting, somewhere out there. Because, as he slips down, rolls on his side and throws an arm over your waist, he knows there are no silver linings here. You’re warm, and soft, and giving in all the right places as he scooches closer and stretches an arm underneath your pillow.

He thinks of that night. Of your phone call afterwards. But damn- he thinks about before it all, before you went back to the estate. He thinks of the teeter you both did, the ‘too close’ you both recognized over a drink, when looks began to get too heavy, and words got softer, the distance dwindled.

He can still, _still_ , remember the close-up of your twinkling eyes, the length of your lashes, the wondrous curve of your cheekbone, and he remembers the shuddery breath you played across his lips at the height of that dangerous dance the two of you were doing.

He startled you, and he’s glad he did, when he reached up to cup the side of your face. Your noses knocked, and like someone slapped him on the back of the head with common sense, he leaned back. Away, got a respectable distance, and looked at you looking at him with slightly widened eyes.

His hand dropped from your face, and he was silent for a few seconds, regretting his blunder, but grateful that he didn’t do something that couldn’t be undone. He turned on his barstool, and flagged down the bartender to get you both another glass of whiskey.

Billy carried on as usual, slipped right back into the safety of your intimate friendship and talked to you about this and that, as if he hadn’t almost kissed you two seconds before.

He wonders if you still think about it. If you ever play with the possibilities of that moment. But he figures you probably want to forget everything about that night. Everything. Him included.

“What are you thinking about?” you ask him, watching his eyes flicker with emotions so deep you can’t fathom what’s on his mind.

Billy blinks slowly, and aims for the dead truth. “Just you.” He trails his eyes over your face, and he’s pathetically floored because even with bed-head and tired eyes, and slightly chapped lips, you’re gorgeous.

“You’re thinking pretty hard.” You retort, and he twitches a smirk, the gesture cat-like, sanguine.

“You require a lot of thought.” He jokes, coaxing a smile out of you and a light hit on his collar-bone with the backs of your fingers.

Your hand turns in the miniscule space he’s left between you, and lays flat on his chest for a while, just feeling the beat of his heart underneath your palm. It’s consistent, strong, the rhythm predictable and sure, and you think that’s very much how he is.

Unchanging.

Billy, shit you not, feels his own mortality right then and there, and his heart says ‘Shit, son! What the Hell you waiting for?’

He doesn’t know. Not anymore. Maybe it’s just habit that has him dancing around the edge of your relationship, scared to step over a line, but wary to walk away from it.

He could so use a drive to upstate NY in the summer, top down, sunglasses on, you in the passenger seat with your hair whipping in the wind, a carefree smile on your lips. Oh, he could use that. Use it right now.

He needs random articles of your clothing tossed around his apartment, he needs your girly shampoo and body wash taking up space in his shower shelf, he wants your toothbrush next to his in the cup on the sink. He needs the other side of his bed indented with your body shape, he needs to hear you play the violin every day, he needs you in his kitchen, stretching on tip-toes to reach everything.

But he knows he won’t get that. Because you’re leaving, and he doesn’t know for how long. He doesn’t know when he’ll see you again, get you like this, get you this close. What he does know is that he isn’t going anywhere.

He is predictable. He’ll wait. And he’ll have whiskey ready, and gauze, and he already has a lecture planned with bullet points, headers and footnotes. You’re a pain in the ass, but he wouldn’t have you any other way.

Billy smiles, something that isn’t just humor, something that isn’t just ‘my bestfriend is awesome and I love her’. Nah, this is a _This woman. She’s got me_ kind of smile. You’re tough, won’t take no for an answer, but you’re loyal and compassionate, and Billy feels so lucky that he gets to see all of it.

He reaches his hold, pulls you right into him, and stretches his neck so you can get in under his chin. He runs his hand up and down your back, and you curl your hand into his sleep shirt at his waist, trying not to feel the jagged edge of regret that you will leave him soon.

He’ll fall asleep. You know.

So, you talk about little things in the mean time, and trace his hip-bone back and forth with your palm, drag the motion up his side with weight, and soon his words are slow, are groggy, and you know you don’t have much time left with him.

You tuck away the heat of him, the easy way you both fit around one another, the comfort and safety of his cologne, the soft breaths that leave him. This is simple, this is easy, this closeness. It isn’t dangerous, or fragile, and you’re so grateful you have it.

He’s asleep for fifteen minutes before you work yourself up to slipping away. And when you break away from his warm embrace and stand next to the bed, you pause. He looks peaceful, those vague worry lines in his forehead are gone, his eyes which are always tight are limp with sleep.

You smile faintly, put a knee in the mattress and bend down across the distance to put a very sweet, lingering kiss to his temple. His mouth twitches in his slumber, but he remains blissfully unaware.

When he wakes to sunlight streaming through his window, the other side of his bed is empty and cold, and you’re gone.

But he smiles because he knows you’ll be back, and he’ll be right here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any guesses on who that guy was in the beginning of the chapter? Cookies for you if you guess right.


	6. The Vaults We Ignore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been close to a month since you've seen Billy, or even talked to him for that matter and it sits on the back-burner. Until he does something uncharacteristic; he texts you. Even half-drunk you return the favor and haul ass to him, God only knows how many times he's had to drop everything for you. Hopefully Frank won't mind you drinking his whiskey and then skipping out without an explanation.

Frank is in the middle of his usual breakfast, in spite of the time: 6.30pm. 3 eggs over easy, white toast, side of bacon and coffee. The lunchmeat sandwich he made himself for break today wasn’t enough to hit the spot, and he has cash to spare.

Footsteps approach, and he assumes it’s just the waitress coming by to refill his coffee mug, the lady has gotten used to how fast he can drain a cup. But the booth across from his creaks, and clothes rustle, and he glances up from cutting his eggs.

His eyes widen a fraction. It’s you. That girl he saw a month ago on the other side of the room, the one that left her bill to him, and a simple coded message on a napkin. That napkin sits on his bedside table, for a reason he can’t fathom. Every time he tries to throw it away, he can’t. The one time he tossed it, he went back for it five minutes later, and now one corner of it is stained from damp coffee grounds.

You wear a light smirk, tugged in one direction because you have a split lip as well as a bruised jaw. You hide the latter behind a very bulky scarf, but he can catch a glimpse of it when you exhale and your shoulders drop.

His fork goes idle in his hand. “You’re still alive, so, I take that to mean you got the help you needed that night?”

You nod, fatigue in the gesture. “Sure did,” you glance at his plate, his coffee, and hold your smirk, “Now, I’m back to make good on that promise.”

Frank scoffs with a brief smirk of his own, “Who are you, anyway?”

You shrug. “Nobody important.”

Frank picks up his mug, and points at you, your busted lip, “Yeah, so you’re saying that’s an accident? You, uh, what? Ran into a door?”

“Ran into a door?” you repeat with a humored twinkle in your eyes “Isn’t that the go-to excuse for domestic violence victims?”

Frank shrugs a shoulder, but something in the narrowing of his eyes gives him away. He thinks you are a victim. “I don’t know, you tell me?”

You raise an eyebrow at him, incredulous, and with no regard to your lip, you smile. “No, no,” you chuckle, and when he wrinkles his brow in response to that you elaborate, “I can tell you, if a man ever put a hand on me, he’d be dead before his next breath,”

You reach across the table and grab his mug, still in his hand- he blinks at your hand, at you, and quite beside himself, lets go of his coffee- and say, “And, uh, the ones that did this are. So…” you take a sip of the luke-warm liquid, and shoot a look out the window, just to break the staring contest you’ve both been so keen not to lose.

Frank looks at you, a little put off by your personality, watches you drink his coffee, and then looks for the waitress. When he catches her eye, he lifts an arm and waves her over.

“You got a knack for finding trouble, don’t you?” he asks, and your eyebrows say _Yeah, pretty much_ over the rim of his cup.

The waitress arrives, taking in your sudden appearance, and before she can remark on your return, Frank intervenes- “Western omelet, wheat toast, home fries on the side, and a coffee.”

She writes down the order, her brows fighting between surprised, confused, and slightly irritated at the brusqueness of this exchange. But she takes it like a champ, and walks off to relay the order to the kitchen.

“I’m gonna ask how you know my order, and I have feeling by the time you’re done explaining I’m going to be impressed.” You put his empty mug near the edge of the table, signaling for a refill.

Frank shakes his head. “You’re a creature of habit. You sit in that booth down there, and order the western omelet, you never eat it all, but you leave a good tip. By the time I roll in here the waitress is just getting around  to cleaning the table.”

You nod, following the logic, but you pop an eyebrow at him. “Yeah, okay, but how did you know it was me if I’m gone by the time you get here?”

Now Frank shrugs with a small smile. “I didn’t. I was just guessing…Didn’t know for certain for until now.”

You chuckle, “Not bad..Name’s Y/N.” you hold your hand over the table for him to take, and he does after smiling and letting a chuckle of his own escape past his lips.

“Pete.” He says, and gives your hand a good solid shake.

The waitress comes by with a new mug, fills it with coffee as well as ‘Pete’s’ and walks back down the stretch to check on her other tables. Cutlery on porcelain, quiet murmurs of conversation, a very loud ketchup bottle, and tinny music from the overhead speakers are the ambience for the diner.

“So, what do you do, Pete?” you ask him conversationally, as he’s taking a sip of scalding coffee from his new mug. A twitch of his eyebrows relay his question of _What?_ “Your hands,” you say, to clarify, “Worker’s hands.” You had noticed when you shook his hand: all the callouses, the blisters in the middle of healing, the dryness of them.

Frank nods, puts his mug down, and crosses his arms over the table. “Construction, demolition.”

Makes sense, considering how giant he is, how well in-shape he is. The fact that he so readily and fearlessly took on the job of facing those brutes in that alley a month ago on your behalf. Frank stares at you, his dark eyes pensive as he contemplates and sizes you up.

“You gonna ask me what I do, or you just gonna keep looking at me, hoping the answer shows up on my face?” You snark, your lips pulled in an impish smile, eyes crinkled in humor, and Frank snickers, leans back in the booth,

“So what you do, Y/N, besides not run into doors?”

Oh, he thinks he’s funny. You roll your eyes, “Bounty hunt…sort of.” You say the last bit with a shrug of your facial features.

Frank smirks, “What’s that mean- ‘Sort of’?”

“It means, if _one_ of _two_ of them end up dead, no one’s going to have a cow over it.” You say coolly, and hike a leg up to rest your ankle of one foot on the knee of your other leg. The hidden message is clear: it isn’t _Dead or Alive_ , it’s just _Dead_.

Frank blinks at you, a little taken aback. “I’m guessing your employer keeps all this under wraps, cause’ it doesn’t exactly sound legally sanctioned.”

You grin. “You don’t sound like you have a problem with that,” you remark, and Frank says nothing to correct you, his eyes just go a little dim in color. Striking a chord, then, are you?

You sigh, and throw an arm up on the back of your booth. “Sometimes, the system fails, in a big way. And people get away with shit they shouldn’t.” You vent, and turn your head to watch cars pass by at a leisurely pace outside the window. “Someone down at the NYPD precinct got tired of watching the guilty walk free…”

Frank swallows a hard breath, holds it in his chest, and lets it out slowly over the rim of his mug as he takes a long, slow drink. He says nothing, because he has so much he could say, and if he started now, he’d never stop.

“You- uh, you sound like you have a clear conscience about what you do…bout that empty pasture.” Frank mutters with squinted eyes, not in malice or judgement, just curiosity, intrigue.

“I do. New York is rampant and soaked in injustice. Dirty people in high-places,” you respond, and pick up your coffee. You look Pete in the eyes, “There isn’t anything in this world that money and fear can’t hide.”

As your food arrives, Frank muses over your words, silently. He thinks about Daredevil, suddenly, and thinks, much like himself, you’d have driven the red vigilante up a wall. He finds, in a subtler, tamer kind of way, you remind him of himself. Very watered down, not bloodthirsty, but you’re swimming leisurely laps in a vast ocean of grey area.

“What is it, that you’ve got driving you?” Frank asks you, his brows knit, one corner of his mouth tugged down as you tuck into your omelet, and you look up at him.

You stop eating, fork stalled and stare down at your ‘breakfast’. It’s a question no one’s ever asked you, it’s one you’ve stopped asking yourself, and in doing so, the answer has become elusive, it’s become blurry around the edges.

He’s asking about why you’re chasing small-time crime and putting a bullet in it. You don’t know. It isn’t helping you find answers about Carlisle. You’re not stopping crime from happening, they’ve already done terrible things, gotten away with it. You’re not playing a hero, trying to save anyone. Nothing is changing with what you’re doing.

You’re just getting blood on your hands, and for what?

“Honestly…” You close your eyes, and sigh heavily. “I have no idea.” You continue eating, and Frank spends the rest of this impromptu dinner deep in thought.

It’s strange. The unspoken way the two of continue to meet up at the diner, at 9.00 on the dot. And you take the first few minutes to observe one another, gauge the kind of day the other has had. Frank takes catalogue of the injuries he can see on you, sometimes the ones he can’t: a limp here, a stiffness in your shoulders, the rigid way you walk due to bruised ribs. And you take stock of the emotions in his eyes, or lack-thereof.

You’ve been drawing a picture about Pete for weeks now, based on little things. Like his straight-backed posture, the fierce eye-contact he maintains, the authority in his shoulders, and that look he gets in his eyes.

You _know_ that look.

You don’t know each other well, but there’s something about Pete that coaxes you to trust him, to become comfortable around him, and you think it might just be because he served overseas. He hasn’t told you, but you know.

Which is why you’re showing up tonight. With a bullet lodged in your shoulder.

Frank is in the middle of a yawn, eyes closed when you sit down. He hasn’t been taking unauthorized over-time ever since the two of you have started, if he’d had he’d miss these meetings. It’s strange. There isn’t anything romantic between the two of you, but he genuinely enjoys your company. You’re snarky, and witty, and most everything you say is borderline childish. But there are moments where you’re sincere with severity, when you cross topics that are touchy, and he welcomes the no bullshit attitude you approach those topics with.

The booth creaks, and he rubs at his eyes while he greets you gruffly. “Little later than usual, you run into trouble?”

You laugh dry. “No, a door.”

Frank snorts a laugh, wry, and then looks at you. The humor falls off him when he spots your left hand underneath your leather jacket to hold your right shoulder. “What the Hell are you doing here _with that_?” he mutters lowly, glaring at the bullet hole in the leather, the stain of blood around it.

“Relax, I’ve staunched the blood flow for right now. I just can’t sew it up cause the bullet’s made a nice home in there.” You’re blasé about it, and Frank’s eyebrows get lower the longer you sit in the booth like you intend to have dinner. You cave after he puts his arms on the table and straightens in his seat, “Ok, jeez. Look, I showed up because I figured…”

“What?” Frank asks, his tone brusque. He can’t believe you. Reckless.

“Being a former marine, you’d be able to stitch this up for me, easy-peasy.” You put your teeth to the inside of your cheek after talking, waiting for his response.

He tenses from toes to eyebrows, and he frowns, “How the Hell do you know-“

“I know the look,” you interrupt, and sigh. “As for you being ‘former’ if you had been on a tour recently, you’d be sporting a strong tan, but you’re pale because you’ve been in NY for a while,” you explain, darting your eyes around the table. He hasn’t ordered anything yet, which is thoughtful of him, to wait on you to show up.

Frank sighs a blustery breath, and scowls at you. “You know the look?” He asks, because if you’re going to play some kind of angle on him, he’s going to look for one of his own.

You nod. “…my brother. He was Recon, but he always ended up in combat…he was too good not to use on the front-lines.” You gaze falls flat on the table, blank as you talk about him, and the ache in your shoulder fades out for a second as _his_ face flashes in your mind.

Frank frowns for a different reason. “He killed in action?” he asks softly, recognizing the grief, the distance in your eyes.

“No.” you look up then, and Frank feels his spine get a little straighter with the expression in your orbs. They’re hard and sharp, and as fiery as Frank has ever seen them.

Frank licks his lips, runs a hand over his mouth, and after shifting his gaze out the window, he sighs. “Alright. I’ll patch you up.”

“I know.” You’re smug about it, and he shakes his head at you as he stands,

“You’re…” he sighs again, and leaves the rest of his unspoken comment up in the air. You smirk as you follow him out of the diner,

“A pain in the ass?” you offer, and he chuckles beside you, hands in his coat pockets, “Yeah, I know. I’ve been told.”

You smile, thinking of Billy and all the times he’s called you such, and you feel a pang of loneliness. Sometimes, you consider taking a break, of just putting down your gun for a while and lazing it up in Billy’s apartment and letting him take you to restaurants, and going to see a movie or something. Sometimes…sometimes you open a taboo vault, and you think of what it would be like if you never left him.

“So, I gotta ask: Someone train you, or…?” Frank wonders aloud, and you yawn and tighten your grip on your shoulder.

“Yeah, someone trained me…but uh, far as I know, he can’t dodge bullets either so….”

Frank laughs under his breath and then glances at you side-long with a smirk pulled wide. You catch him and raise your eyebrows,

“What?” you say, mildly curious.

“Nothing.” Frank grunts, and then shrugs his shoulders with a little shake of his head. “You just remind me of someone.” He doesn’t tell you who that someone is, he just finds humor in the uncanny nature of it…you remind him of Billy.

The walk continues in silence for a good while, the air bitter, footfalls dull and hollow in their echoing. Shadows waver in the edges of peripherals, and light glints off various damp surfaces, giving rough edges gentle glow, and soft color. Mist rises from grates, from vents high on the sides of buildings, and spits from random pipes in alleys.

He’s taking you to a degraded section of the city, where cars speed through with the headlights off, and no one out on the street has their face in open view. Fires in barrels, groups of burly men gathered around them, they all are hunched in the shoulders, murmuring to each other in low tones that are gravelly and rough.

The apartment building leaves much to be desired, such as lights on the outside of it, maybe a surveillance camera that doesn’t look like it’s straight from the 80s, less questionable tenants. Honestly, the building just needs to be in another part of town.

“I’m not going to get shanked, am I?” you remark, side-eyeing one man who stares at you from under his hood. Your left-hand warms, liquid wetting your palm. It seems you’ve finally bled through the gauze wrap.

“Not if you don’t want to.” Frank grunts, pounding up a set of paint-peeling stairs, the planks groaning under his weight. The staircase is narrow, barely wide enough that he can fit his broad shoulders in it.

You follow behind, slower, footsteps heavy as you try not to jostle your shoulder. You press harder on your wound, blood trickling down your arm and bite back a snappy retort. He turns, once on a landing and disappears down a short hallway, you’re only a few seconds behind.

You don’t squint into the dimly lit hallway, the flickering lights, dust coated floor, the ugly wallpaper that’s in need of a change, you can swallow that if it means there’s stitches on the other side of his hideous monochromatic door.

His apartment is underwhelming, but given the appearance of the outside you weren’t expecting much.

Frank motions for you to sit at his tiny table caddy-corner from his make-shift stove, and you do, turning the chair with your foot hooked around a leg so he can get at your shoulder. You sink to sit as Frank ventures further into his apartment, gruff voice carrying just fine,

“So, why are you here?” he calls, and you grimace, shrugging out of your jacket. “Why not, uh-“ he crouches down underneath his bathroom sink to grab his first-aid kit.

Your jacket hits the floor, and you wince, glancing at the red-stained gauze you wrapped so tight your right arm had went numb. Frank reveals himself around the corner, yellow-gold light illuminating and spilling across the floor from an area you can’t set eyes on.

He sets the kit on the table, and you find it amusing and somewhat eerie that Billy has the exact same one. “Why not go to the guy that trained you?” he inquires, opening the cabinet above the sink for a bottle of whiskey.

_Oh hell yes._ You think, resting your eyes on the bottle of No. 7

“He was the one that picked you up that night at the diner…” it sounds like a question, but coming from Pete you know it’s anything but.

You sigh, and thunk your head back into the wall just as he begins unwrapping all the layers of gauze on your shoulder. “We uh…things are…” you close your eyes, and run your tongue along the back of your teeth, centering on the pain, the tug and pull of drenched gauze as it’s untangled, the metallic tang of your blood.

Frank watches you find words, not alarmed about your tired disposition. If you had lost more blood, maybe. But as he lets the rest of the gauze fall to the floor, he takes an educated guess, “Complicated, huh?”

You nod, and swallow back another sigh. “That’s a word for it.” You hear him rummage for a moment in his kit, metal…he’s grabbed a pair of medical forceps. 5 ½ curved blade forceps. The same ones Billy has used on multiple occasions to pull fragments of bullets, and metal debris from your back and mid-section.

Murphy’s Law could be slapped onto every aspect of your life. So, when you had a plan, and danger was involved, danger made itself the plan and you walked away wearing injuries like unrebukable badges.

You sit, thinking of your words. Couldn’t be farther from the truth. There wasn’t anything complicated when it came to you and Billy. It was all cut and dry. All of it. You were simply trying to bring yourself to the pasting process of it.

“That bullet’s still in my shoulder. Thought you were going to get it out?” you mumble, cracking an eye open to look at Pete on a knee just outside your right leg.

He scoffs, and jerks his head to say _Alright then._ He wraps one hand around your upper arm, firm, calloused. You let your eye slide shut again, and you wince with a hard shudder when those forceps start their careful exploration.

_“How did you get this one?” Billy asks, stretching his neck out to the side so you can look at him over your shoulder._

_You sigh. “Bastard hit the ground, didn’t move, so I figured he was down for the count,” you explain as he grips his left hand at the junction of your neck and shoulder from behind, fingers hard, “There was so much going on I didn’t give him a second thought…and- ah!” you gasp at the sudden pain that comes from the forceps digging into your wound._

_“And?” Billy prompts you from behind, his voice level, even. His hand squeezes, the only indication that he’s sympathetic._

_“And, he didn’t move. Not until it was all over. Played possum.” You hiss through gritted teeth, your hold on his knee tightening at the pain. You see now why he had you put a stool in front of the couch. Not only did it put you in a malleable position, but it gave you something to focus on, something to transfer the pain into. His leg. Poor guy._

_Billy hums, and carefully pulls the bullet out. The battered head of it. He drops it into a metal bowl, “Should’ve torn right through your shoulder,” He thinks aloud as he reaches behind him for the antiseptic. “Why didn’t it?”_

_As he unscrews the cap, you fight back the tingle in your jaw and answer him. “Cause it tore through someone’s skull before it got to me.”_

_Billy blinks, an eyebrow raised. He grabs a pad of cotton and places it below your bullet hole so that when he pours the antiseptic it won’t run down your back with the blood. “Who’s the someone? I’ll pay my respects.” He snarks, and it brings a chuckle out of you, one that’s cut short when he splashes the alcohol over you._

_He flinches when those fingers of your dig into his leg like knives._

_“You fucker!” you growl at him, and he grunts at you. “Where the hell was the warning for that!?”_

_Now he laughs. “What? You want a play-by-play?” He threads a needle as you calm yourself, as your fingers loosen on the muscle of his leg. Billy lays a hand on your neck and shoulder junction, and you sigh a breath as he starts to stitch you up._

“Hey.”

You blink and sit up straight, your eyes snapping open.

Frank holds his hands up in front of him, palms out. “You’re all set.” He says, and nods at your shoulder before he stands.

You glance over, sure enough, it’s been stitched and padded, and even lightly wrapped to make sure the padding stays. He’s starting to clean up the mess, the bloodied gauze, dirtied instruments, etc.

You reach down for your jacket. “Thanks.” You tell him, and he nods, washing his hands from your blood. Idly, you notice the whiskey is still sitting out. “You saving this for a special occasion?”

He peers over his shoulder, “Nah.” He points at an overhead cabinet and goes back to washing his hands. “Glasses are there.”

And so you spend that night drinking whiskey over a tiny table in need of furbishing, and with a man in need of a _re_ furbishing. He says little, as opposed to the jokes and stories you can get him telling over a plate of eggs, apparently the change in edibles has halted his conversation.

“I’m going to ask.” You say, after a while. After the biting the sting in your shoulder has died down, after a warm fire has begun to glow like embers in your stomach.

His dark eyes regard you patiently, curiously over the rim of his glass, and you take that as initiative to ask your question.

“About why you never went back.” You take to staring at the whiskey, the thin elegant scrawl of the label, and the apartment is silent.

Pete leans back in his chair, and folds his arms over his massive chest as he waits for you to explain yourself. As he tries to find some way to either avoid this topic, or carefully shut it down.

“You go over as one person, and come back as two,” you rub at your eyes with your left hand, staving off a yawn. “That second person though…tears through who you were before.”

“You say that like you know.” Frank remarks, his voice edged, and you look up at him under your lashes.

“I’ve never served. You got me there,” you admit, but your voice is brittle, stony. “But I’ve seen it. I’ve watched my brother, my bestfriend leave in the middle of sentence, a laugh, watched the light leave their eyes as they’re pulled a million miles away in a second,” you take a breath and turn your head, let the ire ebb from you in minute pulls of breath from your lungs as you stare out his only window at the dark night.

“They come back, cause they always do…but they’re looking around with creases in their brows, and their hands are reaching for guns that aren’t there anymore, and they’re just lost,” you murmur, falling back through time to these moments you mention, you see it: the expressions, the twitching of fingers, the hardening of shoulders, the locked jaws that give away discomfort.

You see Carlisle and Billy look around with narrowed eyes dripping in confusion, the tall buildings glinting sunlight don’t make sense. The people so freely walking around them don’t belong. And all at once, the realization hits them:

“They don’t belong. Not where they are. They’re home but they’re gone.”

Frank stares at you, his eyes softening, his shoulders slumping as he too remembers. Remembers those feelings, remembers the looks he got from Maria and his kids when he’d clock out. Remembers the helpless guilt he felt when he’d catch them.

Because he wasn’t the same person, he wasn’t who they were expecting when he came home. Not really. Because not all of him came back.

“They came back. They always did, but it wasn’t without losing something each time.” You muse in subdued fashion, and swirl your whiskey in your glass as the silence settles with finality. You’ve nothing left to say and he can find no reply that will satisfy, so he fills your glasses until the bottle runs empty and you’re both running with memories to a finish line you can’t see.

**-**

Billy thinks of calling you, his thumb hovers, shaky from hours of drinking. He’s paced his apartment for so long his feet ache, and the motion has soaked into his calves; it feels like he’s still walking. But he’s been on the floor, leaning against his wall for a good thirty minutes, fighting through alcoholic grog and grit to be placed somewhere in the present.

His apartment is loud, louder than it should be. But not with the war, no. There’s no gunfire, and screaming.

There’s just the sound of ragged last breaths, choking on blood, rattling on liquid. Gasping. The sharp, bitter tang of blood and death, the sound of flesh tearing. Then there are the pleas, the begging, the questions of why.

His head is pounding, aching at the temples, and sweat rolls down the back of his neck in rivulets. His jaw throbs, teeth grinding.

_“I’m leaving soon. Few days, actually. I need you to do something.”_

Billy’s eyes snap shut and presses the heels of his palms to his closed lids, his phone clattering to the floor.

_“I need you to cowboy up-“_

_“Ah, Jesus, Carlisle. Would you let it go?”_

_“-And take her on a date. A real date.”_

_“No.”_

_“Man, what if I die over there? This is, basically, my last wish.”_

_“You’re leaving for five months. You’re not going to die, and I’m not taking her on a date.”_

_“My bestfriend is so mean to me.”_

_“So, why don’t you get a new one?”_

_“Ah, you’re such an asshole, Bill.”_

Billy gasps for breath, cracks his head back into his wall, watches spots dance in his vision and the impact is enough to jar the anxiety from his chest. His throat burns, clenches painfully, and he grinds his teeth again.

His apartment is dark, all the lights off and he’s been in the same spot so long the floor has warmed from his body heat. His teeth bite at the inside of his cheek as his fingers fumble along the floor for his phone.

**-**

Your phone vibrates in your pocket and you mumble, your cheek mushed on the surface of the table. Numbly, you shove your hand inside, and pull it out, wincing at the light of the back-screen.

You have a message. You squint at it for a few seconds, running your eyes over the lines of letters…

WILLIAM

    Need you.

 

You sit bolt-upright, completely sober and the chair’s leg squeak, making Pete jump in his own chair.

You’re already standing and heading for the door. “Hey, sorry but I gotta go. Thanks for-“ the door slams shut behind you, cutting your sentence off prematurely, but Frank rubs the sleep from his eyes and huffs,

“Sure. No problem.” Trouble seems to follow you, but he can’t say much better about himself.

You sprint. Sprint in the cold and the air that cuts you to pieces as your heart beats like a train from worry. Your legs begin to burn five minutes into your journey to him, and even though breath is sawing from you in big gasping sounds, you still try to call him. To get him on the line so you can hear his voice and know what kind of state he’s in.

But it keeps ringing, and your concern only mounts exponentially. You toy with the idea that something serious has happened. What if he…

You banish the thought. There’s no way Billy would get himself into a situation he couldn’t get out of. More-so, he didn’t tell you where he was, so you could only come to the conclusion that the need was pointless. He was home.

The lights are off, that’s the first thing you notice when you round the corner, and something in you drops, but you push yourself towards the doors. Your reflection tells you that you’re amped up, that you’re trembling, tells you that your eyes are wild.

Your reflection tells you to calm down.

You punch in the numbers to let yourself inside, and while a really big part of wants to tear up the stairs and burst into his apartment yelling his name, you don’t. You steady yourself, pull that Luger from the back of your pants and start up the stairs, one careful step at a time. Every second feels like an eternity.

The staircase is wide, open, the walls smooth and grey, a mixture of stone and metal. Low lighting tells you there’s nothing on the floor to look out for, no footprints or blood.

Suddenly, as you look up into the shadowy depths of the staircase you clock-out.

_The air is heavy, but the estate quiet, as if holding its breath. No need, the storm outside is so loud. Lighting illuminates a tiny sliver of the marble stairs before it all sinks into darkness again, and you trail a hand up the banister as you go._

_The first landing…that’s when you feel something is awry in the air. Like goosebumps waiting to raise, but you pass it if off as lingering effects of alcohol and continue on, careful about your heels making too much noise._

_But you stop at the top, at the beginning of the second-floor hallway that holds all the bedrooms. The hallway is deep, cloaked in shadow, only brought to life when lightning flashes through the window at the end of the hall._

_All the bedroom doors are open. You stand, knees wobbly as you breathe raggedly. Something is wrong._

_You can feel it._

One of the lights flickers, and blinks out, and you stumble, grasping a railing to keep from falling. You close your eyes and breathe deep, in and out, in and out, until…

You press on, gun in both hands, low at your side, your footsteps silent and sure. Just like he taught you.

Cautiously, you push his door open, slip through once the space is wide enough. And just as carefully, you lock it behind you. You sweep his apartment, side to side with your gun, and calm your breathing as you listen, listen for someone else.

Venturing further in, you keep your knees slightly bent, your eyes narrowed. It’s quiet, silent. A kind of silence that unsettles you, it reminds you of that night.

“You better not shoot the shit out of my apartment.”

You whirl on the voice in instinct, but you recognize it. “William?” you can’t see him anywhere.

“I’m fine…well,” he pauses at his own wording, and watches you lower your gun, watches you struggle to find him in the dark as your eyes adjust. “You don’t need the gun.”

You follow the sound of his voice. If memory recalls, there’s nothing where he is, just wall. You tap on an end table lamp and soft glow cascades across the floor and all his furnishings, and falls on him with all the trepidation of nearing a skittish, dangerous animal. It hugs him, clings to the very outline of him, but leaves the deeper parts of him hidden.

“What-…” you sigh, lay your gun on the same end table and approach him. “What the hell happened?” you wonder aloud, not without some friction, and he lolls his head as he shrugs in one big drawn motion of his shoulders.

“I just…” he trails off as you crouch next to him, itching to look at you, but he can only glance at you. Glance at you because if he looks too long he’s afraid he’ll crumble, afraid he’ll lose his walls. He sighs heavily, and closes his eyes.

You watch him. You give him a quick once-over to be sure he isn’t injured in some way, but he seems physically fine. No blood, no tears in his clothes. But if you lit a match right now he’d burst into flames, it’s more than obvious that he’s been drinking. It hangs on him like a coat.

You’ve seen him drunk, but this isn’t that.

Did something happen with his company?

“It’s 3 in the morning,” he says suddenly, his voice rough, and his eyes are still closed.

“Yes.” You reply, and wander your eyes over his hair, how it’s managed to make a part on the left side of his head. Most likely from him running his hands through the strands, probably took the gel right out of it.

“Sorry if I-“

“I was passed out drunk. You didn’t interrupt anything.” You interject, and he snorts, some semblance of the real Billy sneaking through this mood he’s in. “Maybe we should have just gotten drunk together so I could’ve skipped the 3 mile sprint across shady neighborhoods.”

“Shady neighborhoods?” his head snaps up at that and he peers at you, seeing if you’re serious.

“Yeah, figured that would sober you a little bit,” you say, off-hand, and stand. You hold out a hand for him to take, “Come on. Up.”

Billy flattens his lips, but takes your hand, and plants one on the wall behind him as you basically offer support while he drags himself upright. He takes some time, leaned against the wall to get his breath back to something manageable, and so he can gather his muddled thoughts.

You step closer, to slip an arm back around his waist and he slings an arm across your shoulders. Billy takes minute notice of his missing tie, and then, sluggishly, he also realizes he’s missing his suit jacket. Still wearing shoes though.

The stumbling, block heavy walk to the couch is an experience, to say the utmost least. He remembers how to walk, but what he can’t seem to do is walk in tandem with you or get his feet to move when _he_ wants them to.

The fall to the couch is graceless, but nothing gets banged up, and everyone’s faces are still in order.

“Okay,” you huff, and kneel at his feet to start untying the laces. “I’ve gotta ask: did you really text me because you were too drunk to take care of yourself?”

Billy groans, smacks his lips. “No…no, I was in a crisis.”

You give him flat look, and point at him with his own shoe, “Which was what? Help, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up?”

He shakes his head, and puts his head on the backrest. “I was…” _realizing what a piece of shit I am._

You sigh at his despondence and go to get him a glass of water while he figures out whatever the hell he needs to. He watches you go, watches the shape of you retreat and glide across the floor of his apartment with ease and familiarity and he aches at the want of it.

“Y/N,” he calls from his slump on the couch and you cock your head throwing a _What_ back at him. “Could you- could you come back here?”

You look at the empty glass in your hand, at him…and sigh. You put the glass on the counter next to the sink and meander back. You kick off your own shoes and flop down next to him on his couch. He breathes easier when you’re near.

It isn’t long before his fingers find your own and entangle themselves, joints testing with the strength he uses. Your other hand reaches up to brush hair back from his face, to graze your fingers along his scalp with soothing pressure, and he sighs an alleviated breath through his nose as you work your magic.

He’s almost fallen asleep when you break the serenity of the moment. “What was this all about, William?”  

His eyes, though closed, scrunch a little more. “I never left.”

You bite at your lip, and knit your brow in confusion. “Never left?”

Billy’s jaw clenches, his adam’s apple bobs with a hard swallow. “I’ve done things since I’ve been home, Y/N,” he admits through lips he’s chewed at in drunken stupor and desperation hours ago. Your hand stalls on its next pass through his hair and he notices. “Things I didn’t want to.” He doesn’t know if he says it to placate you, if he says it to convince himself, he doesn’t even know if-

No, of course it’s true.

“William…” you don’t know what to say. Is there anything that can be said, be done?

“Stay.” He says and lifts his head swiftly. He’s seeing stars but that doesn’t matter. He needs you to stay here. “Please.” He seeks your eyes, worried that he’ll see disgust, but so hopeful that he’ll see forgiveness.

You think it’s silly. That he’s so condemned by what he’s done. Like you yourself haven’t killed people. In fact, earlier you had murdered a small warehouse of thugs and thieves with no remorse- and walked away with a bullet in the shoulder so maybe there was an order to things, but anyway-

“William.” You say, and he knows, _knows_ you’re going to hit him with sass and wit and it just about makes him break. But he holds himself together to listen. “I’m plastered, you’re not even in New York you’re so out of it, and I am too damn lazy to call an Uber.”

You stand, and he looks up at you, those eyes piercing through the dark to find yours like gravity. “Y/N, I’m sorry.”

He’s _so drunk._ You realize this, and yet, there’s something very coherent about his apology.

“For what?”

Billy rattles out a weak laugh and sits up. His arms twine around you, and buries his head in your stomach, breathing in your scent. He revels in the warmth of you, he nuzzles his nose against you, tips his head back and says, like another apology: “I’ve just about run out of willpower.”

Your expression says, _Yeah, ok, buddy. That’s- that’s nice._ But you cup his jaw, scratch your fingers along the facial hair there, and you think, behind eyes that give nothing away: _Yeah. Me too. Why do you think I leave all the time?_

“One day, Y/N. I’m going to tell you everything.” He promises, words barely slurred with oncoming sleep, and he knows you think he’s talking out of his head but he’s dead-fucking-serious.

“Well, leave that day for a day when you’re sober.” You tell him, and grab at his arms to pull him up.

His arm goes around your shoulders, your own around his waist, and as you both stumble to his room, he chuckles all groggy and limp, and you smirk lightly. “What?” you say, and he chuckles again around closed lips,

“Cowboy up,” he responds, and he grins. The expression is all alcohol, but the emotion…that’s real, from a time that only Carlisle existed. “I gotta cowboy up.”

“Alright, Russo.” You roll your eyes, and careful as you can, you let him follow gravity towards his bed. He lands on his side with a short grunt, and doesn’t move. He’ll be out until afternoon. As you collapse on the other side of it, you think you will too. You did promise you’d stay, after all.

Once more, his hand finds yours in the dark, and you realize belatedly that he hasn’t fallen asleep yet.

“Stay with me, Y/N,” his voice is a quiet murmur in the dark, just as silken and smooth as the sheets you both lay on, and it’s a voice difficult to ignore.

“Shut up.” You shoot back without any bite, and you squeeze his hand to let him know the words are just words. “Go to sleep.”

He falls asleep minutes before you, his fingers tight like iron around your own and they don’t let up. Not even when the two of you are deep within sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all we're taking this slow...because character development, and redemption arc, and mystery, and slow burn.


	7. Resilience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You have it in spades, it seems. Frank respects you for it. Billy wishes you'd put some of it up for sale.

Frank eyes you, stretched across the length of the booth, leaned into the corner of the backrest and the wall. “What was it this time?”

You say nothing, and stare at the wall behind the counter, the chrome of steel and murky reflections of the world playing on the metal. The coffee machine splutters and spits out hisses of steam, the scent of burnt coffee wafting around the near empty establishment. There’s one other patron, aside from you and Pete, and he’s half asleep in his rueben sandwich.

“It was-…There was…” you sigh, and close your eyes, rubbing at your burdened lids. You can still smell the tang of blood, the sour layer of sweat, the mold, it’s all pressing at your mind. The dank and dark of the hallways, the drip-drip of leaky pipes, the squeaks of errant rodents, all the sounds flit in and out of your ears on a wobbly loop.

This had been a hard one, physically, mentally, emotionally.

But in the end, the right people were dead. If only you had saved the ones that deserved to live…

Frank waits, with a low brow and stiff jaw. You were here before him, for once. Far as he can tell, you aren’t severely injured. But there’s an emotion in your eyes, and a defeated slope to your shoulders that tells him there is a lot more to the story at hand.

He remembers he had hard fights too, ones that took an emotional toll. And those were always harder to come back from than the ones that would leave him physically battered and bruised to a pulp.

“Kids.” You finally say, and close your eyes, finding your bearings, gutting up.

Frank simmers, silent. He knows you don’t want to be coddled, to be told that you did everything you could (and he’s sure you did). He knows, he just _knows_. So, he also knows that you need to hear: “You can’t save everyone.”

“I guess,” You shrug, and resituate yourself, toy with a loose string on the hem of your jacket and try to get over the fact that you’ve walked away from this job without scratch. It makes you feel blustery, your muscles hot and acidic, and somehow it just makes your eyes tired. Like you’ve seen far too much tonight and your eyes just want a do-over.

Frank hails the waitress, orders for the two of you and watches you leap-frog through your night with a flat brow and limp lips. He rubs a hand over his mouth, scratches at the scruff along his jawline, and looks towards the kitchen, the steam flowing from the window, the clanging of metal, and contemplates. He sees the waitress tend to her other tables dit-dotted here and there, and listens to you sigh, low and heavy and he decides.

Frank captures the waitress’s attention again, and gives her a polite smile when she reaches your table, “Hey, sorry to bug ya’, but you could we actually get our food to go?” She nods with a tired smile and patters off to relay the message to the kitchen and you regard him from your peripherals,

“What’s up?” you ask him, and turn in the booth, letting your boots hit the floor with loud smacks, and he shrugs at you, shooting his eyes off to the side,

“Night you’ve had, you need something stronger than coffee.” He clasps his hands over the table, rolls his shoulders free of the ache in them for a few seconds.

You notice. “You sure? You seem tired.”

He scoffs with a wry smile. “I’m fine, darlin’, just a normal kind of tired from working a normal job.”

You twitch a wan pull of your lips. “Not going to some hole-in-the-wall bar, are we?”

Frank snickers at you, “What, _that_ you have a problem with?”

He pulls a small chuckle from you. “No, I don’t have a problem.”

 Frank nods, and pulls his wallet out to pay for your to-go orders. You’ve little thought about where you’ll put the boxes, or if you’ll eat along the way, and the decision is made for you when the waitress supplies you with plastic ware.

Your departure from the diner is quiet, and much like the weather it’s unassuming. The sky is overcast, dyed the faintest shade of grey with thin clouds that roll and ripple, and fight back against the stain of dark blue and purple from the encroaching night.

A light drizzle is on its way, but it doesn’t prompt you or Frank to speed your walk. Your Styrofoam boxes are open and you’re both eating leisurely on your walk to whatever bar Frank has in mind. He keeps sneaking glances at you, cursory ones that prick at you.

“I’m fine.” You say, moving food around your box, and Frank shrugs,

“I didn’t say anything.”

You huff at him, and throw him a sarcastic look. “Really, I’m fine. I don’t need someone to worry about me.”

Frank frowns, but nods all the same, respecting your position. He knows exactly how you feel, and though it’s what you need, having someone worry, having someone openly care, it’ll only raise the waters instead of lower them. It’s all still too fresh for you, he can see that.

“Can I ask you something?” Frank closes his box, not really hungry anymore.

You shrug, and toss your food into the nearest trashcan. Streets are scarce of traffic and in the long-distance rumbles of thunder can be heard.

“The guy who trained you, does he know what you’re doing with that training?”

You bark a short laugh. “Yeah, and he highly disapproves. But he can’t stop me.”

Frank squints in thought, tucks his hands into his jacket pockets. “Can I ask why he trained you?”

You roll your lips into your mouth, bite at the inside of your cheek and drop your gaze to the sidewalk, idly noticing the flattened globs of chewing gum stuck to it. “I wanted him to.”

Frank looks at you from his peripherals, “He uh- what’s his profession?”

You regard him curiously, “What’s with the interest?”

Frank shakes his head with a wry smile, “Ah, nothing. You’re just a walking question mark is all.”

You smirk and pop one shoulder up, _sure am._ “My turn to ask a question, if you don’t mind.”

Frank nods, agreeable. “Seems only fair.”

“Castiglione…Latin for Castle,” you remark, your gaze ahead, but you can see him in your peripherals, see him stiffen a fraction, watch him suspect, and you _know._ “Pete isn’t your name, is it?” you look over at him, smiling a bit. He isn’t.

His eyes are intense when he answers you. “No. No, it isn’t.”

You hold a hand up, “Relax. I don’t care,” you run your tongue across your teeth. “I’m dead too, technically.”

Frank blinks at that information. “What do you mean?”

“Survivor’s guilt is a bitch to deal with it, isn’t it?” you offer with a dry smile. You inhale a deep breath, and your shoulders slide, slope with your fatigue, “My family’s dead too.”

Frank frowns hard, his teeth grinding. “That why you’re out here, doing what you do?”

You scoff, “Hey, you can’t say anything. You do, you’re running the risk of being called a hypocrite.” You point at him, sass, and let-me-tell-you in the motion.

Frank rolls his eyes. “Yeah, ok. But you don’t know who’s responsible, do you?” Frank can tell that about you.

You sigh, “No. I don’t have a clue. All I know is that it wasn’t your garden variety criminal.”

Frank rubs a hand down his face, and then rubs his eyes. When he opens them, he shakes his head. “I just-“ he puts a hand up, all ‘stop, wait a minute’ and you do. “You don’t care?” he motions to himself.

“Should I?” you press your lips flat, and quirk an eyebrow at him. “You’re out, aren’t you? Even if you weren’t, if you were still out here painting the town red…I was one of the few that didn’t have a problem with what you did.” You put your hands out to the side of you, palms open, “Maybe I’m wrong, but I feel like you’re probably the only person who really understands how I feel.” You tsk at yourself, huff a hot breath and then start off down the sidewalk. You’re pretty sure you see the bar.

Frank catches up to you right quick, and grabs your shoulder, effectively stopping your fiery march. “You’re not wrong. I do get it. I’m just- trying to wrap my head around it.” He means all of it, and you give him some grace on that front.

You force a smile.

When you both get inside, you head to the bar and order before you even sit down. The strongest whiskey they have. You’re both many drinks in when you finally break the silence.

“I’m sorry about your family.”

Frank stalls in his drink of whiskey, lips paused on the rim. He puts his glass down, stares into the luster of his alcohol, and blinks slow. “I’m sorry about yours,” he says, and meets your eyes, lets you see the sincerity, the understanding in his own, and then he drinks.

You stay until close, until you’re both the only ones left, and they turn off the music, and unspoken word is given that it’s time to go. You pay, happily, and Frank follows you out, a large sturdy force at your back, exuding companionship.

Outside, on the sidewalk, in the biting wind, Frank grabs your shoulder, gives you a strong squeeze. And you lay your hand on that forearm, return the squeeze. And you break away.

You tuck your hands into your pockets, hunch your shoulders against the wind, and take off down the street. “I’ll see ya.” You say over your shoulder.

Frank watches you go, watches you walk and walk until you disappear around the corner. And then he heads home, wondering if you’ll find the napkin in your pocket he slipped you while you were both drinking.

-

You don’t. Not for a while anyway. Not until you hunker down in your studio apartment a week later, and collapse on the couch, clothes rumpled and sprinkled with blood. You doze off and on for a few hours, waking up to resituate, or to go pee, or sometimes to just stare at your ceiling in exhausted delirium.

At some point, in some way, on one of your trips to your bathroom, the napkin Frank slipped you a week ago fell out of your pocket. It sat in a crumpled ball just around the corner of your sofa, hidden by one of the legs of your end table until 1am that day when you finally turned on the lights in your apartment to make dinner.

There’s no name scribbled above the number, but you know who it is. You smile.

As you make a simple dinner of fettucine alfredo, you shoot Frank a text.

_Hey, got your napkin. You left your number on it, though._

It’s a few minutes later, when you’re straining the noodles that your phone vibrates, and you stop what you’re doing to pick it up.

_Damn. Meant to leave my name, make you guess my number. Just damn._

You snort a laugh and shake your head, and your phone vibrates again with another text.

_How’ve you been, Y/N?_

You hum at the question, take catalogue of your injuries over the last few days, and though they are numerous, you brush them off.

_Same old same old. Kicking ass, taking names._

You rinse your fettucine, put it in a pan and add the sauce. You mix it, your stomach growling at you in ravenous hunger. It’s been a minute since you’ve sat down at home and eaten a home-cooked meal. At you put a plate on the counter and grab some silverware, your phone alerts you to another text.

You paw in your drawer as you pick up your mobile.

_Yeah. You get shot anymore since we last talked?_

You can’t help but chuckle and type out a response with one hand as the other blindly grabs eating utensils.

_No. Just shot at. _

You smirk at your own sass, and turn around to put your silverware down.

You blink at the two forks you’ve grabbed, the two knives. You look across the counter at the stool on the other side, empty it sits.

You sigh.

_Well, that’s a slight improvement._

Your fingers find words before you do.

_Haha. You can’t tell me you haven’t been shot more times than you can count._

You sigh again, and lean into your counter, staring down into your steaming plate of fettucine. You think about your six pack of beer in the fridge, and you rub your hands down your face with a groan.

Before Frank can reply, you punch in another number.

**You up?**

The response is immediate.

**For what?**

Your lips twitch a smile. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was waiting by the phone for you to contact him.

**Fettucine. Alfredo. Beer.**

**In that order?**

**In whatever order you want, William. But it might be a little difficult to separate the alfredo from the fettucine at this point.**

With a smile on your face, you pick up your plate and take it back to the copper pan on the stove. You scoop your dinner back in.

**When?**

Instead of texting him, you send him a picture of the fettucine on the stove.

**What, no chicken?** Is his snarky response.

**Listen here, you little shit.**

**Alright. Alright. I’ll be over. :-D**

**You’re a pain in my ass,** you tell him, a grin splitting your lips.

**Yeah, but you love me anyway.**

You roll your eyes. But you don’t correct him. He’d know a lie when you told it, and that would be bold-faced lie. He’s always been able to tell when you’re lying.

You have time to make garlic bread, and toss together a bowl of salad. So you do, an eye on the clock above your sink. You set a timer on the oven, and while you still have a few seconds you shed your dirty clothes and put on something simple.

A comfy tank-top, and a casual pair of jeans.

Of course, that doesn’t stop you from teasing him when you open your door.

“And he appears wearing a suit and tie, standing confidently but altogether out of place on the threshold of a modest abode-“

“Oh, shut up,” he interrupts, and brushes past you. “Where’s the food?”

You shut the door behind him, and he beelines for the stove, talking over his shoulder at you. So amiable, so natural. He talks about things that don’t matter, not in your everyday life. Things that will disappear before tomorrow, things that hold no substance such as wet dirty footprints on linoleum, or finger smudges on glasses, a dirty car, a lack of dish soap.

Those aren’t the things he’s saying, but they’re things he _could_ be saying. He stirs the pasta as he reaches above in the cabinet and gets himself a plate.

“Anyway, I don’t care how economic it is, I’m not downloading books onto a tablet.” He shrugs, and scoops a heaping amount of fettucine onto his plate. “I don’t know, it’s like sucking the soul out of a book, you know?” Billy checks over his shoulder for you, and blinks.

“What-?” He mumbles and turns, and takes a little step, leans sideways. You’re leaned back against the door, hands on the wood, gaze on the floor. “What the Hell?” he mutters under his breath.

He approaches you, dropping his plate off on the counter. Your phone vibrates on the island counter, and Billy spares it a glance, a minor glance as he waltzes past.

Billy stops in front of you, a tiny wrinkle between his brows. “Hey,” his hand curls around your arm, and you look up,

“Y-yeah?”

Billy’s eyebrows raise, and his gaze flitters between your eyes, and the rest of your face. “You alright?” He murmurs, his voice low, soft, and your throat tightens.

It’s so close.

Everything in your life, it’s all so close together, they’re no space for anything to be independent. Your friendship with Billy, the near invisible line that stops you from becoming more. The need to be strong, but the paper-thin sheet of glass that _is_ your strength is riddled with cracks. The pampered, spunky, carefree adult lavished in fortune, and the tired, scar-littered, bloody-knuckled woman on a rampage for answers.

“I’m good,” you lie, and shake your head at yourself, “Just woke up not too long ago.”

Billy peers down at you, his dark eyes pensive, dancing with light and shadow. He nods. “So, you’re actually making use of this place?”

He asks you as he turns on his heel and heads back for the counter, for his late dinner.

You sigh quietly, run a hand through your hair. “Yeah. Yeah, I am,” you follow him, cutting the ache in your throat with a hard swallow. “Every now and again.”

He nods again, listening. But he’s twisting pasta around his fork, so who can say how _well_ he’s listening. “Beer?” he requests before popping the fork in his mouth.

“Yes, your highness.” You roll your eyes at him, and he smirks at you. _Right you are,_ his expression says.

It’s a few minutes into the eating, the drinking, the discreet removal of sauce on the corner of lips and chins with quick hands that words finally make a way between the food.

“So…” Billy picks up his bottle of beer, tilts the neck in your direction for emphasis, for gesture, as he talks. “You’re doing alright?”

“I’m alive, aren’t I?” You sass him, and point at your plates with your fork, a noodle dangling from one of the prongs. “Sitting here, eating alfredo, no chicken, with you.”

Billy goes quiet, drops his heavy eyes to your food, watches you spin some pasta around your fork, and he takes a pull from his beer. “I haven’t gotten any calls from you in a while. That’s all.” He mutters to his noodles, and you stop.

“I-…” Well, you can’t exactly tell him about Frank, can you? Billy looks up at you, his eyebrows shot high so he can see you. “I’m fine, William.” You finally settle on, with a smile.

His head bobs. And he spears a few slices of lettuce, a cherry tomato onto his fork, and he says, “You’ve got a new scar.”

You can’t help but look at your shoulder, on display with the tank top you’re wearing. “Yeah. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

Billy lays his fork down, and lifts his head, pins you with a stare. “You’ve gotten better at stitching, huh?” The statement is pale, it’s pliant, it almost doesn’t sound skeptical. But this is Billy, and you know that look in his eyes, the glint, the hard edge that darkens his coffee irises.

You work your jaw and lick your lips. “Ok- Jesus. Someone patched me up.” Here come the questions.

“Someone? Who?” Billy has no interest in food anymore. He leans forward on his stool, “Who was it?”

You sigh and drop your fork onto your plate. “A friend,” You cross your arms over your chest, and cock an eyebrow at him. “William… _don’t._ ” _Don’t ruin this perfect dinner we’re having, you ass._

William slides off his stool, and runs a hand over his beard, scratches at it while he plants himself in the middle of your living room, and folds his arms over his chest as he fumes. “Fine. I won’t.”

You close your eyes, tuck your lips into mouth and hop out of your seat. You snatch up his plate and yours, glance at him standing in your living room with his wide stance, and his crossed arms, and his pious attitude-

“Asshole.” You find yourself saying on a tight note, and his shoulders jolt, snap tense, and you could shake your head at yourself for your blunder, but you don’t. Because he turns, and you have to pretend you _need_ to wash the dishes, even though it won’t matter tomorrow.

“I’m the asshole?” He scoffs in disbelief, and marches towards you, his frustration mounting when you turn on the tap, and lay the plates in the sink. He rounds the counter as you squirt your almost empty bottle of dish soap into the stream of hot water.

“Do you- do you not get it?” His words are clipped, they’re hard and brittle but his expression is anything but. His arms are spread wide, gripping the edge of the counter, and the island, and he watches your back, “I know you need answers, I know you lost everything, but-“

He pushes himself forward, drowning in your silence and the sounds of running water, and he comes closer to you on silent feet until he’s at your back and he’s look down over your shoulder as the sink fills. He looks at your hands laying limp on the sides of the sink.

“You’re _all I have._ ”

He reminds you in that moment, just how much he lost when you both lost Carlisle. Now it’s only you and him. That’s it. That’s all there is.

“I know,” you acknowledge, your voice weak with the truth of it, and you sigh through your nose. “I know.”

He curls around you, arms wound tight around your middle, feet on the outside of yours, his head dropped down to rest on your shoulder. He watches you wash dishes, watches your hands disappear into the suds, watches you put them in a rack, watches the plug get pulled. Watches it all swirl down the drain…

“That night…” you murmur, staring down at the few globs of soap left in the sink, and Billy drapes his chin over your shoulder. “At the bar- way back when…”

Billy squints, but doesn’t dare to hope to think you’re talking about _that night_.

“You shouldn’t have leaned away.”

But _you are_.

Billy twitches a sad smile, and huffs a chuckle. “Yeah,” he closes his eyes, and sees it all. How different it could’ve been. How he could have nights like this, with you, and not be talking about things that could’ve been. No, instead, he would’ve had nights with you that bled into morning.

He inhales deeply. “I know.”

But he doesn’t get nights with you. He doesn’t get mornings either.

He just gets a few minutes.

“So, seriously. Who’s the person that patched you up?”

“William!” you groan.

And he grins. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, hi there. This is me, trying to get back in the groove of this story. Sorry I've been away for so long, life has just gotten busy for me is all. Love you all!


	8. Like A Web

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's such a lovely day, why not take advantage of it? Seems to be the thing on everyone's mind, and the park is the place to go, half of New York is there. Although, not everyone is enjoying the weather. And not everyone is having a good day. Actually, a lot of people are having a very shit day, and by a lot, I mean exactly four. Guesses?

Another day, another fight. You’re getting better at it, that much is certain. You’ve walked away with scrapes, little bruises, a good ache in your muscles, one that gives you pride. You’ve the rest of your day to kill, and no idea what do with it.

The city is loud, obnoxious, callous to the dirt and crime, and once upon a time you were too. When you hid in the estate behind marble columns, and burnt bricks, and waist high hedges that stood guard over perfectly manicured grass…

The estate was a world of its own, removed from the world itself. It was safe, but it was empty. You fight yourself sometimes, wondering if you were better off back then, blind as you were. Or if the life you live now is better.

Truth be told, they’re both awful.

It’s a bright day, warm, but with room to change and everyone is out making the most of it. The sidewalks bustle with people, the streets are crammed with traffic, and even the birds seem more lively than usual, out en masse and bursting from rooftops and window ledges without que or pattern.

Idly, you wonder if the dead-drop location holds your pay for today, but you don’t need funds that badly. Besides, Albert is always late with it. It probably won’t be there for another few days. Albert makes you wonder, sometimes.

The guy’s a genius, a right genius. You wouldn’t be surprised if his IQ was in the 200s. Why he was working as a simple cop is beyond you. He could be changing things, the world, if he wanted. But…maybe he already is.

The cash he drops you for killing marks is higher pay than a cop in New York should be able to afford.

You shake your head. It doesn’t matter. He has money, he pays you. End of story.

A scream grabs your attention, and your hand jumps for the gun you have attached to your hip underneath your jacket. Your head snaps to and fro, and a girl is running, a guy chasing her with a stick, something dead hanging off the end of it and you sigh.

You readjust your jacket and look around.

You’ve arrived in the park while lost in your thoughts. The park where you first met Billy. The fountain is dead ahead, cluttered with people soaking up the sunshine and listening to the water bubble and babble. You almost expect to see him there, slightly reclined, sunglasses on, catlike in relaxation. But of course he isn’t.

He’s at work, running his business, managing contracts. Doing something legally sanctioned, moral. Doing something patriotic.

Sometimes, often, you think Carlisle would’ve fit in in Billy’s company. Hell, they’d probably be running it together. You can only imagine the prestige; the strength Anvil would have if Carlisle were a part of it. You snicker, thinking the two of them would most likely try to convince you to be a part too.

And then, suddenly, you wonder just what your life would be like right now if Carlisle, your family, was alive.

What would you be doing with your life?

You draw a blank. A large, white, embarrassing blank.

You plant yourself on the edge of the fountain, and glance over your shoulder, through the shimmery water at all pennies on the bottom, glittering and winking at you in the diluted sunlight cutting through the rolling depths. The smell of chlorine makes your nose twitch and you turn your head away.

The pond isn’t too far away, about a two minute’s walk from where you are and you bet it’s just bustling with people and families trying to fish, or throwing bread at ducks.

It goes without saying that you missed it this year. Ice-skating. Not so much missed as avoided.

There are some things you can handle. Like eating at the restaurant, or visiting the park, maybe even going to the bar, the usual one that all three of you would raise hell in. But…you just couldn’t do the pond, not during winter.

You’ve the day to kill. You might as well.

-

 

It’s bright. Too bright. And loud.

So many people out and about.

He rubs at his eyes, the heaviness in them. He just arrived from Vienna, straight from Russia. He hasn’t caught a wink of sleep. Not in the last four days. He’s nothing to do, for the moment. Home soil is so messy.

All these people milling about, in their white tennis shoes with their non-fat lattes and sugar free gum. Their happy smiles, and four children running amok like wild animals. Home soil is so messy.

He puts his sunglasses back on, and rakes his hair back from his face. He needs to get it cut.

It’s warm out, almost unbearably. But even still he wears a long coat, fitted to his form and heavy. New York weather is temperamental, whip-lash, always changing. Like a woman and her mind.

He leans on the railing to the pond and stares into murky water, spotted with dried leaves and chunks of floating soppy bread. He’s changed in the last couple of years, gotten wider, sturdier. Maybe a little thinner in the face, duller in the eyes, but those are things he can live with.

His red-gloved hands dangle over the railing and his black wool trench coat flaps gently around his calves. Children run behind him, shrieking in joy and parents call after them, giving words of caution. People mill about around every foot of the pond, in leisure.

In the grass, people throw frisbee and footballs, and play fetch with their dogs, and kids chase each other.

He sighs. It’s so loud. And bright.

He looks up. He loses his breath.

It’s you.

You’ve got your hands in your pockets, your head is ducked but your eyes sway, watching the people like he is. There’s something in your eyes that doesn’t fit, something that doesn’t seem to match your appearance.

He didn’t think he’d ever see you in the flesh. It’s euphoric almost, the feeling of seeing you alive and well and enjoying something as simple as the weather.

He was certain, reluctantly so, that you’d give up. That you’d accept your family’s death and fade into the safety of your money. He was certain you’d move on. You’d carry it with you, no doubt. But…

He didn’t think it would sink into you with hooks so sharp.  

But here you are, with a stony look in your eyes and firm shoulders, measured steps with slightly bent knees. There’s a gun on your right hip, it’s hard to see, but when you take a step the grip presses against the confine of your jacket, your arm brushes it, makes it more prominent.

He knows, in that singular moment, what kind of life you’ve been living.

Admirable, but destructive.

He should leave, make a clandestine retreat. But, he can’t help but stay, and watch you walk around the pond.

His hair is a different color, a different style. He’s been all over the world, picked up on numerous accents. He’s sure if you approached, he’d be fine.

As it is, his cellphone vibrates in his pocket, and a higher power calls him away. Calls him on another mission, and he heeds the call, if only to get closer to the one that gave it. He has an angle he can work, but…well, he isn’t sure using the angle is worth it.

It’s complicated. All of it.

Life was so much simpler before he died.

Phone to his ear, he turns on his heel and disappears into the throng of joyful New Yorkers, warmth pricking at his back. But a cold wind chills his face.

-

Billy observes, with stilted obligation, a training session. It’s common practice for his employees to dedicate at least three hours a week to hand-to-hand combat, just to ensure their skills stay sharp. But it’s like skimming the words of a story he’s read multiple times. He knows what follows, so he doesn’t pay attention.

He knows the end result.

His employees are combat ready. That’s the conclusion, always is.

Billy turns his paper cup of coffee in both hands, it’s lukewarm, not even half gone. His mind is elsewhere today. His mind is in a lot places, places you inhabit. He’s thinking of the other night, your tiny confession of sorts. He’s thinking of the morning, when he woke up in your bed and you were already half out the door, yelling at him that you made coffee and there was some leftover oatmeal on the stove. It was almost the flavor of domestic that he wants with you.

Almost.

He’s naïve enough to believe that he’ll get it one day, despite the noose around his neck and the gun at the back of his head. He’s foolhardy to believe he’ll share a bed with you when he hunts women in positions of power, women married to men in positions of power. Exploits their appetites, learns secrets, and then leaves them high and dry…

Carlisle wasn’t wrong. You wouldn’t bat an eyelash at any of it. You’d accept it, absolve him of his guilt, his shame.

Once upon a time, Billy was an okay guy, a decent guy. He was tortured, broken, sure. But war will do that.

Then, he came home and it got worse. It got so much worse.

“Excuse me, sir?”

Billy blinks back into focus, and spies his secretary in the reflection of the glass. “What is it?” He takes a gulp of coffee, the flavor of vanilla going stale with the chill.

“A package arrived for you.”

Billy watches one employee struggle against a choke-hold, hands gripping the forearms of his partner. He taps out. Billy can’t help but think you’d have found a way out of it. Hell, you wouldn’t have even been put in a choke-hold.

Billy shakes his head and takes the package from his secretary. It’s a small non-descript white box without blemish, no stamp or note. And part of Billy is wary, part of him worries. _A bomb?_ He can’t help but think.

But a bomb never would have made it past security, no matter how small.

“Thanks, Brenda.” He says, and she shoots him a wan smile before retreating back to her station at front desk.

The lid comes off easily enough, and when Billy spies the contents, he’s confused for a moment.

Origami flowers fill the box to the rim. Blue Tulips, Irises, and in the center, on top of them all is a Tiger Lily.

Billy closes his eyes, and clenches his jaw against the tremble, the nausea tinged ache of nostalgia, of knowing but not quite knowing enough. Billy sighs out a ragged breath, and leans back against the wall, his attention stolen from his job.

He wonders who delivered the package, if it was on a pre-determined schedule, if he walked in here himself to deliver it. The other flowers, he can guess at but he knows the tiger lily. Knows what it means, and he knows it isn’t for him, not explicitly.

It’s a nod to him. The lily is about you.

Billy puts the lid back on. He’ll keep this.

After sparing the training room a second’s glance, Billy leaves. He has paperwork he can go over, he has _things_ he needs to take care of. He has phone calls to make, things to check.

The box is light, but somehow, it feels heavy in his hand.

-

Frank walks with heavy clumping steps, his feet taking him somewhere of their own accord. His day got cut early, earlier than usual and now he’s wandering the city like a lost tourist. People hustle and bustle around him, families out and about and giving the city a run for its money.

He finds himself thinking he’d be out here too with Maria and the kids once upon a time. They’d go to the park, and his kids would test out every jungle gym and swing, and they’d climb every tree, and he’d chase after them. And Maria would watch with her sun-warm smile and candy caramel eyes and she’d be content.

Frank stops, his stare stuck on his dusty, dirty work-boots.

Children squeal in happy delight, and Frank can almost pretend it’s his own children if he doesn’t look up.

They speed past him, giggling and laughing, and Frank clamps his jaw so tight his teeth ache in his mouth.

“Hey, stranger.”

Frank snaps his head up like a whip and comes face-to-face with you, hand still up in a wave. He swallows a few times before he can talk. “What are you doing here?”

You look around, at the crowded park, and you are out of place. You shrug, “Time to kill. Nothing to do.” A kid sprints past you, just barely skimming you, and you wince a little. He came close to bumping into your gun.

Frank nods, but doesn’t say anything, his eyes wander the crowd, ghost-like.

“Walk?” you ask him, and when he takes a minute, when he blinks and looks at you in question, you throw a thumb over your shoulder. He nods again, slower this time.

“So, what’s new, Y/N?” Frank says, keeping his gaze low, only high enough to glance at you from his peripherals.

“Oh, you know,” you roll your eyes with a wry smile and Frank huffs a breath through his nose at you.

“Oh, I do know.” He teases listlessly, and you peek at him in curiosity.

He’s tired, slightly out of it, but he’s heavy in the eyes, and you know he’s thinking about his family. You’ve worn the same look like it’s a fashion statement for almost two years now.

“Did you ever worry you’d get rusty?” You think aloud, and the question is so vague, so bizarre that Frank looks at you, one dark brow angled in confusion. So, you clarify, “It’s like I’ve hit a wall in hand-to-hand. I mean, these guys,” you wave your hand broadly at the skyscrapers, at the skyline, at New York to emphatically imply the thugs of New York and continue, “can’t lay a hand on me now. It’s all so effortless. It’s no longer a challenge.”

Frank furrows his brows. “That isn’t exactly a bad thing.” He points out, and you shrug a shoulder. He rubs a hand over his mouth. “No. I didn’t worry I’d get rusty. I was just so hell-bent on ending the people that took my family-  nothing else really filtered through,” he scratches at his jaw, and heaves a big sigh.

“Never crossed your mind that you might die?” you peer up at him, eyebrows high, and Frank chuckles dryly.

“No. That wasn’t an option. Not for me.” His lips are a flat line, his jaw set like stone,

“It doesn’t get any better, does it?” the words tumble off your lips, loosely, without color.

Frank regards you sharply. But you’re looking dead ahead, your eyes dim, haunted. And he wonders if his own eyes look so lifeless. He wonders if you’d believe him if he lied to you right now, if he told you it does get better.

Frank sighs again, the sound dry and tailored with exhaustion. “I don’t know,” he tells you honestly, and you nod your head, resigned to it. “I’d like to believe it does, though. Eventually.”

He’s never been an optimist. And he doesn’t think you are either.

A family of three walks by you two, the mother carrying their little girl valiantly fighting off sleep. Frank inhales raggedly and turns his head away, stares at the pond over your head.

“You uh-” Frank rubs at the back of his neck and you tilt your head to look at him in neutral curiosity. “You said before that it wasn’t a common criminal that killed your family?”

You lick your lips. “Yeah. The security system hadn’t been tripped. Nothing was stolen or out of place. They seemed to know exactly where to go: no doors were open or left ajar except for the bedrooms on the second floor.”

Frank closes his eyes and swivels his head. When he opens them he’s looking in the direction of the playground. “That’s where..?”

You nod brusquely. “Yes. All of them. My mother and father’s throats were slit. My sister and brother had been shot in the head.”

Frank grimaces, and his lips move with vowels before he can actually form his thoughts into words. “But the killer didn’t stick around for you?”

You shake your head. “That’s what has me going crazy, Frank. A professional would’ve finished the job through to the end. But I’m still here. Which means-“

“You were never a target.”

You point at him, and nod vigorously. “But you know what? That isn’t the worst part.”

Frank stops, in the middle of the walkway where it branches off into three directions. He doesn’t like this, doesn’t like the clandestine air that surrounds your story. He doesn’t like the taste it leaves in his mouth. It’s organized. There was an agenda behind it.

“I was pronounced dead. I called in the murder but nothing happened for two days. I was assured by authorities that everything was under control,” your hands ball into fists at your sides, but your tone is calm, even, your facial features: statuesque.

“There was a funeral. A week after. I was pronounced dead along with my family.”

Frank blinks, once, twice. And shakes his head, “No wonder…” he understands the haunting painting that is your eyes, the pain there, the turmoil. He understands just how badly you need what it is you’re doing out on the streets.

“They produced a body. ‘My’ body,” your eyes are steely, cold like ice. You laugh, “I went to my own funeral.”

“Why?” Frank wonders. “What was the importance of your family?”

You shake your head, and shrug. “We were just rich.” You start walking, “And now we’re dead.”

Frank squints in thought and follows after you. “The estate…it’s still there?”

“Yeah,” you shove your hands into your pockets, and swallow a hard lump in your throat.

“It hasn’t been put up for sale?” he asks you, and you shake your head. “So, what happened to all of your money? Who did it go to?”

You inhale deep. “That’s the thing…it didn’t go to anyone. It’s still there. My account is still open. Still active.”

Frank stops dead. “You’re able to access all of your money?”

You nod…you whet your lips. “I stayed with my friend- the one that trained me -for a while after all of this happened. It wasn’t too long after that a card arrived in the mail. It was plain, didn’t have a company name on it or anything. Just a note.”

_“To ease the burden of your loss. There is no substitute for family, but some can settle their souls in other ways. My condolences.”_

Frank’s brows sit low, casting hard shadow on his dark eyes. It’s a conundrum, to be sure. It’s mysterious, eerie. And he has a feeling the searching for answers only lead to dead ends. But he doesn’t blame you for looking. He would too.

Frank clasps a hand on your shoulder. “You still have that card?”

You stare, eyes slightly narrowed. “What are you thinking?”

“You’ve been using cash this whole time. No paper trail, right?” Frank’s gaze bounces around above your head as he thinks.

“Right.” You don’t know where he’s going with this.

“What if we gave them something to follow? Leave a fake trail? See who comes out of the woodwork?”

Now, you choose to be pragmatic. “That seems a bit risky.”

Frank smiles. “You won’t be the one taking the risk.”

You frown, hard. “Frank, no.” _Just so much no._

He smirks with a small chuckle. “Think about it, Y/N.” He ruffles your hair, much to your chagrin, and with a little push to your head he turns around. “I’ve got nothing to lose. You change your mind, let me know.” He waves at you over his shoulder, and leaves you standing in the middle of a sidewalk gawking after him, conflicted.

-

He watches the two of you part ways, watches the way you stare after him. This hipster looking older man.

His curiosity is piqued. Maybe you’re looking for outside help, trying to find some way to learn the truth of that night. He won’t let you. He’ll do what needs to be done to keep you blind. At least until he’s free. And then he’ll be happy to tell you everything, explain why he had to murder your family in cold blood.

He only hopes nothing happens while he’s away. Ibiza is nice, but he won’t get to enjoy the weather.

Not when he’s sent to deal with a politician who doesn’t understand the meaning of secrets. They’re to be kept, not sold out to anyone with a penny or dime and time to listen. The truth is fragile, and sometimes, against better judgement, fragile people are enlisted to guard it.

He’ll right those wrongs.

It’ll take time. But he will.

He scoops his dirty blond hair back from his face, and observes as you leave the park, your expression thoughtful. He dawns an almost identical look, and heads for his car in the lot, whistling.

His car greets him, sunlight glinting off the sleek matte surface of white, accented with black. The windows are tinted black, the taillights, though off, are a deep red. With a click of his car remote, his doors unlatch, slide, and lift up, angled like wings.

It’s a shame he’s only driving to the airport. All this horsepower.

“And no room to gallop.”

To himself, he muses whether or not Billy got his message. He concludes that he probably did, and now he anticipates the response.

He won’t goad you with any notes, any gifts. No, you wouldn’t know. You wouldn’t _know_ , if he did. And that’s what he wants; to be known.

Nobody ever tells you how boring, how isolating being dead is.

He makes a point on his drive to the airport to pass your apartment, though the pass is short, and he can’t honestly see anything. It’s a catharsis of some sort. He doesn’t analyze that, just so you know.

On the flight he’ll spend a good hour trying to find this man you were talking to. He’ll spend another 30 minutes researching, getting up to date on Anvil, and then he spends 15 minutes reading every article that’s ever been written about the tragedy at the Winbrook Estate.

A revisit never hurts.

Of course, that isn’t to say he doesn’t want a new story, something shiny and unheard of, a glinting light on the horizon. He could settle for that.

He can settle for just about anything anymore.

_He has to burn his clothes, the blood won’t come out of them. He takes a shower four times, scrubs his skin raw, and he has to finally concede that the scent of iron won’t leave his nostrils. And though his hands shake, and he knows they’ll stop, for a while, they don’t. For days that turn into weeks they tremble._

_He’s kept on edge, flown from here to there, with binders full of names and faces he has to memorize, locations and more names. Key phrases in different languages, he has to memorize miles of foreign cities and schedules of multiple targets._

_He receives orders by text message, sometimes by letter, other times by a messenger themselves. He receives orders not from a man, but a name. A name with no face, but a name with power, authority and a reach so far he dares not search on his own._

_Orange._

_He receives his orders from one called Orange._

_He was too good at his job. Reconnaissance. Easy. Intel gathering was his game, and he could play both sides of the board like it was nothing. He learned things, about the US government. Things that made him stop, made him clench his teeth. But these things in no way surprised him._

_He wasn’t sure what he was searching for, why he kept digging. But he did. And he eventually learned too much. And Orange was on him like a bloodhound who scented prey._

_A deal was struck._

And his life ended that day. He’s been in limbo ever since.

But intel gathering is still his game. And he has cards to play, useful pieces. He’ll escape. One day. One day soon. And whether or not it’s necessary…he’ll kill Agent Orange. Why not? Agent Orange killed him.

Foreign soil is messy, no doubt. But home soil…home soil is bloodier, of that he makes no argument.

-

Billy sits at his desk, documents piled high, but thankfully finished.

His hands are clasped together, elbows resting on the lacquered surface, his mouth pressed against his crossed thumbs.

The box of origami flowers lie open in front of him, his desk lamp shining down on the colorful paper. Eyes narrowed, he picks the box up, and tips it over, spilling flowers all over his desk.

From the bottom of the box floats a thin sheet of plain white paper, etched with a single word in spindly, elegant scrawl.

It stares up at him, glaring. And Billy glares right back.

_Orange_

“I hear you,” Billy murmurs, and sighs. He rubs the heels of his hands over his eyebrows, and then cradles a cheek in a palm. “But I can’t.”

It’s beginning to rain outside, a light drizzle on its way to a heavy pelting torrent. Thunder rumbles faintly in the distance, a low growl shaking on the horizon. Billy swivels in his chair, and watches the approaching storm crawling across the sky on dark purple, roiling clouds.

_Where are you today?_ He muses, _And where will you be tomorrow?_

Billy knows where he’ll be. Same place he always goes after his morning routine. _The_ park. At least for a few minutes. While it’s quiet, and it’s shut down.

He never used to, but ever since the shit-storm that was the tragedy of the Winbrook Estate happened…well, he’s taken to revisiting the park. Though he wasn’t a first-hand witness, standing there, where it all happened…

He can feel it.

And he doesn’t know if it’s doing good, or more harm, but he does it, because he doesn’t think he should forget what he’s done. He won’t go near the estate though. He won’t.

He can’t face that.

It’s one thing to be responsible for a tragedy. It’s another to stand idly by and do nothing to stop one when you can. He suffers both ends of the spectrum.

His phone vibrates on his desk, and your name blinks at him. The corner of his mouth curls.

_So, you owe me dinner._

He smirks.

_I’d argue, but somehow I feel like you have ammunition to emerge on the other side victorious._

Ah, truth is he’d do anything. He isn’t sure he actually _owes_ you dinner, but what the Hell? It’s you. So, yeah. He owes you dinner.

_So, I owe you dinner. Which means I reserve the right to decide the venue._

Billy can practically see you paling, regretting your decision to jerk him around-

_Sounds good. Let me know where, when._

Billy reads your reply, twice. And a frown tugs at his lips. For some reason, he feels as if the storm isn’t far off. He feels as if it’s already arrived.

And he’s forgotten his umbrella.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a very subtle game of tug-of-war happening. Who's it between? I'd love to know your answers to my question, and in general, any thoughts you have. Much love to you all, dears!


	9. The Martyrs Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A simple dilemma, really. A normal one, one you never thought you'd encounter ever again. You need to buy a dress. And you need a second opinion.  
> If only Billy's day was just as mundane. He has a feeling that his hair will prematurely grey, and it will be all your fault.

Days pass, days that turn into weeks, and you don’t hear from Billy at all. You’re sure he’s busy, but even still, you wait by the phone. Albert sends a few possible cases your way, and you tell him you’ll get on it. Just not right now. He’s blasé about it, wishes you luck with whatever it is keeping you out of the game.

If he only knew you were taking time off to find a dress. To find something to wear. _Yeah, no more kicking ass because I need to find a pair of heels to match this dress I don’t have yet._

No surprise, you have none to choose from in your closet. You flop back onto your bed and sigh. Honestly, it isn’t a huge deal, but you know Billy is going to take you to some posh restaurant with a dress code, so you can’t show up in combat boots and a leather jacket.

You probably could…but last thing you want is to embarrass Billy. Billy takes pride in what he does, how far he’s come, takes pride in what he can do, what he can buy, where he can go. He deserves the high-life, and though you despise it, you’ll humor him for a few hours.

You’ve gone to three stores in the past week and scrutinized every dress they carried. Thing is, you hate dresses, hate getting dressed up. You’re sure some of them were pretty, but your sheer distaste for dresses in general has you convinced they’re all ugly.

So, you call in the hail Mary of all hail Mary’s.

You don’t even think about it before you call him.

It rings twice before he picks up and his gruff timber barrels into your ear,

“Y/N, I hope you aren’t callin’ cause you’re in trouble…” the background is quiet, quiet enough anyway. You can hear cars and the faint murmur of conversation,

“Not mortal danger,” you choose the words with your usual brand of humor, and you sigh with a wince. “This is- actually kind of embarrassing…”

You can hear Frank smile, hear it in his voice. “What? What’s embarrassing?” You figure he needs any opportunity he can get to laugh, so you roll your eyes, and say,

“I need an opinion,”

“Uh-huh…what about?”

You can see in your mind’s eye the frowning smile he has going on, the twinkle in his eyes, the way he tries to lick the smile off his lips. He’s nothing if not predictable.

“Wipe that look off your face, Castle, or I’ll deck you next time I see you.”

He laughs into your ear, genuine, and full chested about it, and you don’t the fight the tiny smile that steals across your own lips.

“Alright, alright. I’ve got my poker face on, sweetheart. Hit me with your dilemma.”

You sigh, and rub at your scalp, the motion soothing. “I gotta buy a dress, heels too, for this dinner I’m going to. Shit- I haven’t been shopping since I was teenager…”

“What, you wanna drag me around while you shop? Can’t you find me something easier to do, like stick my hand in a blender?” he’s smirking into the phone, but there’s a tinge of pain in his tone, an aching nostalgia.

“Oh, I definitely could,” You sit up and glare into your bare closet, your t-shirts thrown about your floor, and sigh again, short and hot. “But I won’t.”

You can hear Frank scratch at his beard as he considers, and you chew at the inside of your cheek,

“I will…buy you a ridiculously expensive bottle of whiskey..?”

Frank chuckles, “You bribin’ me now?”

You groan and kick at a pair of jeans on the floor, sending them flying into your closet. “C’mon, Frank. What else are you going to do with your day?”

It’s quiet for a moment on his end and you just listen to him breathe. And then…

“Alright. What time? Where?”

You beam triumphantly, and glance at your clock. “Today, I’ll pick you up in an hour,” You stand, and look around the mayhem of your room for your boots. Frank grunts at you on the other side and you smile softly.

“Thanks, Castle. You’re a diamond.” You figure it couldn’t hurt to kiss ass.

“And don’t you forget it, Y/N.” His tone is light, impish, and he lingers a second in silence before he hangs up.

You locate your wallet, in its usual place (in the cushions of your couch), and rush out, a bounce in your step. It shouldn’t take you long to get to his apartment, if you jog you can be there in ten. Honestly, he’s asking for what you’re about to do to him. And anyway, he doesn’t really need more than one car.

Still in a jog, you dial Billy’s number, you know he’ll answer you, no matter what he’s doing.

He proves you right.

“You need something?” his tone is neutral, businesslike, so you gather he’s at work, most likely around employees or the like.

“Not exactly. Just wanted to let you know I’m stealing your BMW for the day, or at least a few hours.” You smirk. You’re sure he’s fighting a frown, restraining those worry wrinkles on his forehead, and you’re honestly missing the view of him clenching his jaw.

“Is this necessary?” The tone of his question makes it clear that he doesn’t think it is.

“You wouldn’t understand, you aren’t a woman.”

It’s quiet for a few seconds, and then you hear his voice, muffled and deep but the words are indistinguishable.

“Let me take a guess,” he’s back, and his voice is light, lively, a hint of humor. “You’re going on a shopping trip, and you need the trunk space.”

You glance around, even go so far as to pat your pockets, “What, you got my apartment bugged or something?”

He laughs, rich and smooth. “Or something,” he teases, and glances down a hallway for traffic, “No, but I do have GPS on that car, and a tracker-”

“Oh, relax.” You roll your eyes so hard it hurts. “You know, William, at some point you have to accept that you can’t control everything that happens to me.”

His breathing sharpens. “Like Hell.”

You’ve reached his apartment, and you type in the code for his front door. “Alright, alright. Mind your blood pressure,” you tease you as the door slides open.

“Ha-ha, you’re hilarious.” He sighs into the phone, and then rubs his fingertips across his forehead. He’s certain all those lines there are your fault, but he won’t complain about them. “Full disclosure: I am basically going to stalk you from my computer while you’re out there.”

You shake your head with fondness. “Wouldn’t expect anything else from you,” you hop-skip up the stairs, lights kicking on at your feet, the hue slightly blue. “Hey.”

Billy leans back into the cold metal wall of the secluded hallway he’s hidden himself in. “Hm?”

“Just- thanks. For everything,” you tap on a standing lamp, casting warm glow across his smooth stone floor and walk to his kitchen. There’s a glass sitting out, still holding a few drops of scotch, the bottle not far away.

You cock a hip and rest your weight on the counter opposite, and inhale gently. “Pretty sure I’d be a basket case if it wasn’t for you.”

Billy lets a tepid smile stretch his lips, not at all cocky, or sanguine with the expression. “Right back at you. Be safe.” He hangs up, still mellow and languid, but already thinking about the GPS, the tracker on the car, and where you’ll go. He’s already thinking about what he’ll do if something rubs him the wrong way.

Sometimes he thinks, muses, fantasizes, what your life could look like. What it should look like. He gets little ideas, things, when he thinks of the life you deserve. He gets pictures in his head, like postage stamp size.

_A gold sunset over a yawning highway, glinting like promise on your windshield. White silk curtains flowing with an easy breeze on a balcony. A big armchair, a quaint fireplace opposite, a mug of tea steaming and spicy. A music stand in front of a window, a big yard stretching out into the distance, violin cradled under your chin. Window boxes, spilling over with flowers, red shuttered windows. Long drives in the night, streetlights beating overhead like reachable stars._

It isn’t beyond him that he doesn’t take place in any of those thoughts. Those ideas of ‘what if’, and what you should have. He knows what’s good for you, and it isn’t him. But that doesn’t mean he can’t delude himself into thinking he can change for you.

That’s where him and Carlisle were on common ground. Only Carlisle genuinely believed Billy was a worthy individual. He honest to God was convinced there was something in Billy that was…redeemable.

Billy retreats to his office, his obnoxiously large office that has too much space to fill. He’s not one for aesthetics, for interior design. He has what he needs.

Like his mini bar. He needs that.

He pours himself a drink, and loosens his tie, cradles the elbow of the arm holding his drink, and stares at the white box sitting on the shelf above his bar. He contemplates.

_Only slightly manipulative_ , Billy muses. He won’t give up _Orange_ though, not this early. These things take time, careful planning. Before he does anything, Billy needs to make sure you can handle yourself, he needs to be sure that he can keep you safe.

You’re his weak spot. And the only way to be sure you can’t be used against him is to make you impenetrable.

It’s obvious _he’s_ getting restless, and Billy can’t blame him. Owing anything to Rawlins is like owing the Devil. But he can’t from the life of him figure out what it is Rawlins has on _him._

Rawlins has mountains of dirt on Billy, but-

“What the Hell does he have on you?” he mutters, glaring at the box. He sighs, and grabs the bottle of scotch off the bar on his way to his desk. His laptop is calling his name, well, calling yours to be more specific.

You’ve got him curious as to what you’re shopping for. Most of your ballistics needs can be handled by him, so what does that leave? You eat out a lot, so you don’t need his car to go grocery shopping, and you’re never home long enough to warrant the need for a full cabinet.

You’re still at his place. Haven’t gone anywhere.

Billy huffs, leans back in his chair and stretches his long legs out, his glass cradled near his chest.

Yes, yes, he is going to waste a day of work stalking you. But hey, you gave him permission.

The blinds to his office are drawn, and the room is dim, quiet. Which exactly why he hears it: the slip, the rustle of fabric in the near corner of the room, behind his left shoulder. He maintains his breathing, the same easy slope to his shoulders, and he knocks back the rest of his scotch.

Billy stands a second later, a sigh leaving his lips.

He whirls, the glass leaving his hand like a bullet. There’s a whip of fabric, and the shadows quiver. The glass shatters on the wall, and by the time Billy has his gun out, the intruder is on him.

He grabs Billy’s wrist, wrenching it to the side, and Billy lets his grip go limp. Billy forces a knee between them, and the man grunts, slips away, and swings a fist high, aimed for Billy’s face.

Billy blocks it with his forearm, hears his gun clatter to the floor, and kicks it. It slides under the intruder’s foot, and he slips. He makes no noise of surprise, and Billy, he lunges, knife drawn from his hip and en route on a downward arc.

A boot to the stomach interrupts Billy, his weight is suspended, and his attacker uses Billy’s momentum against him. He sails over his assailant, and rolls across the floor, landing next to an end table.

The man gets on a knee, grabs Billy’s gun-

Billy reaches up, underneath the table for the gun he has Velcro-ed to the bottom of, the motion jars the lamp to life- 

And spins, his aim true-

Billy has him in his sights. And he freezes.

The lamplight falls over his features with stilted promise, like the light itself is reluctant to reveal.

Billy stares, shocked and paralyzed on the floor, his gun still aimed. But it shakes slightly.

The man smiles, faintly. And places Billy’s gun behind him on the desk, his eyes locked on Billy. “You’re losing your edge.”

Billy says nothing.

“I was curious about whether or not you got my message,” he murmurs, and his eyes slide to the mantle over Billy’s bar, “But I suppose you just haven’t found the words yet.”

Billy lowers his gun, lays it on the floor, and sits up, all of it one fluid motion, and he looks across the short distance between them. He squints, just barely, because even though the light falls on him, he sits on the very edge of the halo, and Billy doesn’t dare to be hopeful. Even so, he finds himself venturing into the area of ‘what if’ when he says,

“Carlisle.”

He smiles, those heart-shaped lips pulled wide in mirth, but if the light were better, Billy would see that it doesn’t reach his eyes. “The one, the only.”

Though his hands shake, and his legs suddenly feel like lead, Billy drags himself upright, his dark eyes fixated on Carlisle. “How did you get in here?”

Carlisle shrugs. “This place isn’t exactly the White House, Bill.”

Billy shakes his head, closes his eyes. “You- you asshole.” Suddenly, he’s indignant, suddenly he’s annoyed, and he exhales sharply. “You just couldn’t wait. Do you have any idea how fragile all of this is?”

Carlisle’s eyes narrow to mere slits, light glinting off his pupils. “Do I? _Do I_ have any idea how fragile..?” His tongue runs along his teeth, and he turns away with a small hiss. “I know. Better than anyone, I know.”

Billy stares at his friend’s back, warring with himself. Carlisle is familiar, but only in memory, this one here, standing on the edge of lamplight in a trench coat as dark as the shadows he’s been hiding in…this man is different. Billy feels like he’s in room with a wild animal.

Whatever Carlisle has gone through in the past two years has changed him, and Billy doesn’t know where- how to stand around his best friend. What’s safe, what’s a threat, what’s right, what’s wrong. He’s learning how to interact with him all over again.

They had a common nightmare uniting them back in the day. But Carlisle has been gone for two years, sucked into a different nightmare that’s become as common and usual as Billy’s morning routine of coffee, wheat toast, and vitamins. Billy’s had a good two years, all things considered. He’s had money, and the finest whiskey that money can buy. He’s had designer suits, and gorgeous women and he’s…he’s had you.

And what has Carlisle had these last two years? Far and few between messages from Billy. Flowers left at his headstone that served as a hello and goodbye all in one, but never a face-to-face meeting.

Carlisle turns slowly, his once jovial emerald green eyes no longer shine with mirth, but with something hard and sharp. He is like a shadow himself, no substance, but depth. There seems to be a weight to the parts of him that are not touched by the lamplight, as if he is layered in enigma and things better left unknown.

Billy has never much believed in anything spiritual, or religious, but standing here in the golden hue of a light in a darkened room as he observes this strange creature- a friend -from his past…if he didn’t believe different he’d think that Carlisle has lost his soul.

But he does believe different.

Billy shuffles back a few steps and sits on the backrest of the leather loveseat, keeping his eyes trained on Carlisle. “If you’re here to ask me to give up Orange,” Billy pauses, his own eyes narrowing when Carlisle’s hackles raise and he shifts on his feet. Billy, for the first time in a very long time, is uncertain. “I can’t. Not yet.”

Carlisle takes a step forward, into the halo of light on the floor. The light cuts a diagonal in him, starting at his right knee and ending at his left hip. “But you do intend, eventually, to give him up?” There’s a thick layer of skepticism coating his tone, and he does nothing to hide it.

Billy folds his arms over his chest. “What do you care about more? Killing Orange, or keeping Y/N safe? ‘Cause I’m starting to wonder.”

Carlisle’s fists clench at his sides, the leather of his gloves creaking. The seams dig into his knuckles, “Two years, Bill. You don’t know the hell I’ve had to live through,” he spits coldly, his eyes narrowed to mere slits. He turns away, back to Billy’s desk, he braces his palms on the lacquered surface. “But I’ve never lost sight of what it was for.”

Carlisle glares down at the desk, the tray of papers, the pens scattered here and there, a paperweight in the shape of a tank- a simple gift you’d given to Billy years ago, something of a gag gift but he’d treasured it and kept it -and he sighs.

“The bodies are piling up around me, Bill. I’m drowning in corpses,” he hisses, his fingers curling on top of the desk. A soft chime emits from the laptop and Carlisle glances over. He watches a red dot move along a blank road, observes it take a few turns, make a few stops, and he picks up the paperweight. “How much longer do you think we can keep playing this game?”

Billy tucks his hands into his pockets and huffs a sigh through his nose. “As long as we have to. She’s going to make it out on the other side of this.” Billy claims, his tone hard, resolute.

Carlisle tosses the paperweight from hand to hand, and then turns to lean back on Billy’s desk. “Yeah. You’ve been keeping a close eye on her,” Carlisle holds the tank flat on his palm and tilts it this way and that, watching the light catch and slice over all the corners and edges. It’s fairly well detailed.

Billy swallows back a lump in his throat. He thinks of all the near misses, the brushes with death that you’ve had, and niggling guilt claws at his chest. “Well, I made you a promise, didn’t I?”

Carlisle chuckles, the corner of his mouth turning up. “I saw her the other day. At the park. She was walking around the pond- you know the one I’m talking about, right?”

Billy’s hands twitch inside his pockets, he tips his chin up. “I do.”

Carlisle smiles, closes his eyes for the briefest of moments as if he’s reminiscing, and then they pop open. Without warning, he throws the paper-weight towards Billy, his emerald greens flat and cold. “She looked…” He watches Billy fumble to catch the tank with a hint of satisfaction, watches Billy’s coffee black eyes flit here and there in surprise. “Tired.” Carlisle finishes, drawing the word out lazily, but it falls somehow with all the force of a hammer driving a nail through wood.

Billy meets Carlisle’s lightless eyes with unbidden hesitation and he stalls a moment trying to find something to say. He lays the paper weight on the end table carefully. “Well, she has been through a lot.”

Carlisle cocks his head, still smiling. “Of course.” Carlisle straightens to his full height, looming on the edge of the light like a stealthy predator. Carlisle hums in jilted amusement, “I doubt the mercenary work she’s thrown herself into helps any.”

Billy stares at the tank from the corner of his eye, “It’s what she wants to do. Short of tying her to a chair, I can’t stop her.” He’s sure not even tying you to a chair would stop you, he’s taught you entirely too much and at the same time, not enough. But Carlisle is right, you have been tired lately, more so than usual.

Billy sighs. “She misses you, you know?” he crosses his arms over his chest again, tighter this time around. “We talk about you all the time. To keep your memory alive.” Billy snorts at that last statement and shakes his head.

Carlisle doesn’t respond. In fact, Carlisle doesn’t do anything, because when Billy finally realizes the silence is a little too heavy he looks up and comes face to face with an empty room. Bewildered, Billy jolts up to his feet and scans his shadowed office.

But he knows, without searching every nook and cranny that Carlisle is gone. The dark no longer makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, and he’s able to breathe a little easier.

Behind the blinds of his windows, the sun shines brighter, stronger, and Billy opens all the blinds in his office. It hurts his eyes, but he welcomes the light all the same.

His palms are clammy, and his throat is oddly dry which makes the liquor on his desk all the more appealing. As he approaches, a spot of color in his peripherals screams out at him and he stops short.

There, on the mantle above his mini-bar is a small bouquet of flowers, hardly a foot long. The stems have been secured with a short length of black silk tied into a bow. Four small dark blue Anemones take the center of the bouquet, with Goldenrod surrounding them.

Billy notices, somewhat belatedly, that the box of origami flowers is missing.

-

 

You sigh at your reflection in the mirror, critiquing the dark blue dress you’ve just slipped on. It’s the tenth dress of the day, and you feel like you’ve exhausted all options. You’re sure Frank feels the same way, though he’s said nothing negative or complained once.

“Well, I thought you wanted my opinion, Y/N?” Frank’s gruff voice calls from outside the fitting room. He’s been patient, good-natured about the whole thing, which you’re grateful for.

With tightly knit eyebrows, you yank the curtain back and step out, already anticipating the inevitable no.

Frank is lounging back on the loveseat they have positioned just a few degrees diagonal of the changing room, his arms spread upon the backrest. He doesn’t look bored, or irritated, or tired. Even though you’ve both been in this store for the past two hours.

“Your opinion is about as helpful as my own. It’s been “no” for the past two hours.” You snark lightly, and fold your arms over your chest.

Frank rolls his eyes and sits up. “Hey, you shanghaied me into this. Deal with it,” he smirks, and appraises your new dress.

It’s a slow thought process, but you watch his lips thin out, a crease flicker in between his eyebrows and his eyes narrow the slightest bit and you know the dress is a bust. You visibly deflate, and Frank’s eyes meet your own.

“Is that the last one?” he asks, hands clasped between his wide-spread legs, looking apologetic.

You try not to scowl like a pissy cat when you answer. “No, there’s one more.”

Frank nods and pops his eyebrows up at you. “Right. Let’s hope it’s the one then.”

You give him a flat look but re-enter the changing room, yanking the curtain closed with a little more force than is necessary. The chuckle Frank lets out informs you that he notices.

“Aren’t women supposed to love this kind of thing?” Frank asks and stands. He stretches his arms over his head with a groan and yawns.

“I don’t know,” You answer grumpily, working your way out of the dress. “I’ve always kind of hated it.” You put it back on a hanger, and grab up the last dress, hinging all your hope on it. You simply will not spend another two hours in some other store looking for a dress. You won’t.

Which raises a question. “Hey. You’ve been strangely good-natured about this whole thing…”

Frank blinks at the curtain in curiosity as he hears fabric whisper and slip. “Yeah, I have.” He folds his arms over his chest, and glances around at other customers on the ground floor, flitting around. Changing rooms are set up about ten feet from the bottom, with a singular staircase leading up, and simple black railings outlining the half-pentagon shape of the area.

Females run almost rampant downstairs, in a frenzy, desperate to find a dress to impress the men that mope and drag their feet after them. Once upon a time, Frank was much the same way. Once upon a time.

“You can’t tell me you’re actually having a good time?” Your voice gains his attention again, and Frank chuckles.

“Oh, Y/N, give yourself some credit. You’re a hoot.” He can just imagine your eyes rolling, and one of your shoulders dropping dramatically in a less than impressed manner and he’s all the more pleased with himself when you huff moodily.

Frank walks a few steps to an uninterrupted portion of railing and braces his hands on it, arms spread wide, and he leans forward. From above, all the dresses are snatches of color, slivers of bright fabric, like the spines of books on shelves rather than dresses on racks. And people flit about, employees, grumpy boyfriends, bright-eyed women. There’s so much hustle and bustle for strips of fabric that will only be worn once, maybe twice if the dress is that good.

“This has all been for that whiskey I promised, hasn’t it?” You ask, tugging back the curtain, your hand gripping the fabric so tight your fingertips hurt.

Frank snorts a laugh that’s not as quiet as it should be because he garners the attention of a couple focused women in the middle of appraising dresses held up to their forms in mirrors, and he turns quickly, putting the store at his back.

His laughter dies abruptly.

The dress is long, fitted, coal black. A halter dress that does not threaten the modesty of your chest, but still accents the curves, compliments your waist. The neckline is high, but not prude. There’s a slit in the side of the dress, a cutaway that leaves your left leg free up to mid-thigh.

Franks blinks a couple times, his mouth slightly agape, and you shift on your feet, stare hard in another direction.

“Why the Hell didn’t you try on this one first?” He asks you, hands at his sides, palms out. “We could’ve been out of here an hour and a half ago.” You think that might be the first time you’ve ever heard him rightly whine.

You dig your teeth into your lip, and fumble for the words. “Because it’s-” you break off, not really knowing how to finish the sentence without coming under scrutiny.

But Frank is sharp. He gathers why when he peers past your shoulder into the changing room’s mirror and he sees the scars on your shoulders and your back. The dress hides none of them.

His lips flatten. “You’re gettin’ the dress.”

You look over your own shoulder, feeling, for the first time in a very long time, self-conscious. You can’t really imagine wearing this dress out in public, in a fine restaurant with upstanding, high-class citizens that will judge you. And by extension, judge Billy.

“It’s just…” you fail for words again, and Frank gives you a flat look.

“Yeah, I know,” He grunts, not unkindly, and shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. “I also know you’re looking at it all wrong.”

You face him with a furrowed brow. “Well, I do I have to look over my shoulder. Hurts the neck a little.” You just can’t help but hide behind your wit. Sometimes, you feel like it’s all you’ve got.

“They aren’t blemishes, Y/N.” Frank tells you curtly, not amused by your sense of humor. He sighs a big blustery breath when your expression doesn’t budge. “They’re proof.”

You release your grip on the curtain. “Proof of what?”

Frank scoffs through his teeth, “Thought you were supposed to be smart, Y/N? C’mon, we still gotta find heels to go with that dress, right?” he makes to walk down the stairs and is stopped when you chuck a very heavy wedge heel at his back.

He’s not even surprised. It’s probably going to bruise. You’ve got a strong arm.

He sighs and talks before you can open your mouth. “Proof that you care about something, someone, more than your own well-being. They’re proof you’re fighting for something,” He turns slightly to look down at the wedge you threw at him, a smile tugging his lips. He meets your gaze, “That’s a hell of a lot more than most people can say.”

You chuckle wetly and blink hard up at the ceiling. “You are _not_ about to make me cry.” You declare petulantly, and Frank laughs.

“C’mon. Heels,” He says, and then smirks, “Preferably not wedges.”

You sniffle and roll your eyes. “It’s not that kind of dress.” You protest weakly, and re-enter the changing room, feeling lighter in the chest. You’re careful about putting the dress back on its hanger, and while you’re not exactly thrilled about the prospect of this dinner, it no longer invokes a sense of dread like it did five minutes before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a million years for this story and I wanted to reward you all with a nice lengthy chapter because you deserve it.   
> This is the music that I listened to for the interaction between Carlisle and Billy if you're curious. I actually consider it to be Carlisle's theme, it fits with my overall idea for his character. No pressure to listen whatsoever. Obviously, the rights belong to the original artist, duh. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-6WjOKqnszo  
> Hope I'm not disappointing anyone! Love you all, dearly! Take care of yourselves.


	10. Sand And Expectations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're grateful for what you have. It may not seem like a lot, but you've never put stock in things, only people. It's why most days you fight to remind yourself that you still have so much to live for. Frank puts things into perspective, which is infuriating for a number of reasons. Billy approaches perspective, still a wet wall of paint, with a new color and a clean brush. Which is also irritating. Question is...why does he do it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why, hello there. Your bitch is back. For a minute, don't get excited. It's been some time, but I got back into the swing of this story, and you can thank a- yes, one. A singular, goddamn song for it. The song that started it all...I'll tell you if you're curious. Anyway, got some emotional insight in this chapter, some relationship advice (sort of) from the sage-like perspective of Frank, and I gave you a fucking cliffhanger, you're welcome. Okie doke. Bye.

He calls while you’re driving, like he doesn’t know damn well where you are and you shift your gaze to your satchel bag in the center console. Frank doesn’t seem to notice the noise, he’s staring out his window at the passing brownstone buildings with a vacant expression.

“Hey,” you say and grab his attention, “Can you hand me my phone?”

He pulls it from your bag, sees the name and quirks a brow, “W.R.?” he lays it in your waiting palm. “That your friend?”

You nod. “All my contacts look like that. No names, just initials.”

Franks snorts with a small smile, no doubt thinking you’re just a little paranoid, overly cautious, but he keeps that thought to himself.

“Yeah?” You say upon answering, doing nothing to mask your sudden irritation. You were driving for God’s sake.

Billy’s breathing is rough, barely managed and you narrow your eyes at that.

“I just wanted to make sure you were safe.” He explains flatly, like you’ve stepped on his foot, maintained eye contact and then walked away without apologizing.

“You know I am.” You point out, teeth digging into the interior of your cheek. “By the way, I finally bought clothes for this dinner you haven’t asked me to yet, so.” You say the last word a little sharply and in your mind’s eye you can see Billy straighten, spine stiffening, his chin tipping upwards a few inches.

“I’ve been busy,” he replies evenly, professionally, and you know his shoulders are set in a hard line. It’s quiet on both sides, the two of you taking stock of attitudes, number of words said, breaths pulled in and out…

Billy sighs. “You free tonight?”

You wait for the light to turn green, watch a women laden with shopping bags jog across the street, and you loosen your hold on the steering wheel. “Yeah, I am.”

Frank side-eyes you, listening to your half of the conversation, trying to work out the other half. He’s clocking in on your body languages, the minute fluctuations of your tone and your facial expressions and he comes to conclusion that there is much more between you and this W.R. besides a friendship. You’d said it was complicated but he doesn’t think it is.

“Great. And before you ask, you cannot keep my car for the rest of the day-”

“Boooo. You suck.” You whine half-heartedly and nestle your phone between your shoulder and jaw as you make a turn, glancing at Frank and the smile he’s hiding behind the collar of his jacket. Jackass.

“Why don’t you get ready at my apartment? Save me a trip?”

“Ugh, oh. Chivalry is dead.” You tease with a roll of your eyes.

“We’re best friends, I don’t have to be chivalrous with you.” He retorts, a chuckle following his statement.

“What, I’m going to have to open all the doors for myself tonight? Lame.” Frank nudges you, and you raise eyebrows in question. He points down the street, on the left-hand side at the liquor store, and you nod.

“Sorry to disappoint. I gotta go. I’ll see you soon.” He hangs up fast, sounding like his mind is already on something.

You frown lightly, lines of worry crawling across your forehead as you pull into the liquor store’s parking lot. As you put the car in park, you look at Frank and your expression flat-lines. He’s wearing a knowing smile, cheeky, with raised eyebrows.

“No. Shut up.” You tear the keys out of the ignition and swing your door open. Frank’s laughter follows you all the way to the door.

Frank shrugs past you when you open the door. “I didn’t say anything, but…” He nods at the cashier in way of a hello, trying to appear congenial and plain, like someone who only works 9-to-5 and not like a living breathing tank of barely hidden aggression.

“Is it a date?” Frank continues, shit-stirring, bumping your shoulder with his own as you two walk.

You almost fall into the shelf, and you glare at him. “No. It’s not a date.” You deny tersely, digging your hands into the depths of your jean pockets.

Frank nods, pouting thoughtfully. “Right, not a date.” He peers and catalogues, and considers all the alcohol at hand, and then slides his impish gaze over to you. “Unless he opens doors for you.”

You throw him a dead-pan look. You’ve never looked less amused, and Frank is loving it.

He picks up a bottle of Jim Beam, reads the label with far too much attention and you scowl, bitter. The door chimes, announcing the arrival of another customer, and you pay them no mind.

“Shit. It’s so simple it’s complicated,” You mutter under your breath, and Frank peeks at you, curious. He puts the bottle down, silently telling you he’s listening. “There’s this thing we do, like clockwork, where we get too close to the line and we stand there, we stand there hoping it’ll just disappear, like a challenge. It’s like we thrive off the knowledge that this line is still there in the sand and we approach just to make sure it hasn’t gone anywhere…” You glower at liquor label, _To ease your inhibitions we suggest you don’t drink alone._ Fuck you, alcohol.

“That sounds fucking crazy, Y/N.” So sage-like, so astute and over-flowing with wisdom.

“I know,” you snap indignantly, chewing at your lip and Frank laughs through his nose.

“Do you want to cross that line?” Frank asks you, leaving the aisle and you stare after him. He stops on the other side of the shelf, looking over it at you. Sometimes you forget how tall he is.

“I think I’m just pissed off that there’s a line at all,” You sigh heatedly, and then you shake your head at yourself. “It doesn’t matter, not with everything going on.”

Frank frowns at you, hard. But he nods, picks up a bottle. Jameson Black Barrell.

Frank stares at it in his hand, looks up at you, and sighs while shaking his head, like you’ve told a tasteless joke. He pins you with a no non-sense look and says, “You’re going on a fucking date.”

You gawk and splutter at him as he walks toward the counter, and you follow without really thinking about it. “W-what?”

Frank rolls his eyes so hard he tilts his head with it and lays the bottle on the counter. He turns sideways so he can look at you, “You bought a dress that women only wear when they have something to prove, or when they want something. You bought a pair of heels that you could kill a man with- She only wears jeans and biker boots-” Frank takes the time to look at the cashier, include him in this debate much to your horror and embarrassment.

“Dinner, right? With a dress code. And you care enough about your friend’s image to get out of your comfort zone. This friend that could easily be more- Jesus, do I need to go on, Y/N?”

The cashier looks at you with raised eyebrows, judging you. You flounder, deflate when the cashier puts the whiskey in a bag.

“…Fuck.” you finally say and slap a $100 bill on the counter. “Fuck.” You repeat for good measure when Frank shoots a half-assed look of sympathy your way.

Frank shrugs. “But hey, maybe I’m wrong. I mean, it’s really only a date if he opens doors for you, right?” He glances at the cashier again, like he needs a second opinion, the ass. The cashier quirks a brow, crosses his arms over his chest and looks at you.

“Fucking right.” You snap, pointing at Frank, daring him to poke and prod further. He smirks at you, smug and gloating, and you groan. You throw your arms up and stomp towards the door while Frank grabs the whiskey and change.

“C’mon.” You grouch, your shoulders hiked up to your ears, “I will make your ass walk!” you call over your shoulder while you roughly shove the door open.

Frank’s had a great day, you two should make it a point to go out for drinks weekly. He smiles all the way back to his shitty apartment, watching your fists tighten, creak against the steering wheel. Frank stands on the curb, apartment building far behind him, nestled into the too-wide-to-actually-be-an-alley-alley, and he holds the open-door frame of the car watching you grit your teeth and seethe like a child.

“This was fun, Y/N. Let’s do it again.” He says that like it’s a good bye but he’s still holding the car. And he won’t leave.

The look you treat him to is blank as copier paper. “You’re such a dick,” You reply, but there’s no meaning in it.

He winks at you, smirks and then closes the door. He slaps the roof a couple of times before making his way to his apartment, wearing a smile that’s been foreign to him for nearly two years: contentment. He’s content in this moment.

You honk at him as you pull away and he throws an arm up as he continues walking.

-

It’s sort of strange being in Billy’s apartment without Billy. It’s so large and empty without him, even if he’s generally quiet as death and doing something unassuming like going through his email or reading, sometimes he’s just sitting on the couch with the nape of his neck laying on the backrest thinking about God knows what.

For such a lithe and small frame he does a wondrous job of occupying any space he finds himself in. Maybe it’s his looks, you’d have to be blind not to notice. Or maybe it’s the way he observes and settles- but not too comfortably -into the background, right on the fringe of the relevant and the subtle but definitely there want to leave a room.

You’ve a few hours to kill and you’ve no idea what to do in that free time. So, you take a beer from his fridge, perch yourself in the window seat and watch traffic go by in the street below, feeling a sort of detached peace that comes from a break in work, and witnessing others knee-deep in labor while you eat a sandwich.

You nurse this beer until it drips sweat and then warms to room-temperature from your palm and you decide that you should start getting ready. You actually don’t have a time limit, he didn’t say when he’d be by, or when you were going out to eat, but it’s better to get ready ahead of time than to rush out the door with seconds to spare.

Hurry up and wait.

When you get in his shower, stand under the scalding spray you stop short. On his shelf is his own body wash and shampoo, and the scent is so very Billy: woodsy, with a hint of something spicy and rich. And you’re hit with the sudden want to use his products, but you don’t. Because next to his bodywash is a feminine bottle of soap. Citrus based, with a tail of honey.

At first you wonder if a woman has moved into his apartment, and you wonder if you should be put-off by that, if you should be offended or hurt or what. And you don’t know if you are. It isn’t as if the two of you ever made promises that you were going to die in the same bed. You aren’t even together-together.

But your mind catches up to your emotions, and tells you that there isn’t evidence of another woman in his apartment anywhere. No dishes laying out, or stray clothes laying haphazardly across furniture. The bottle of women’s soap hasn’t been opened at all, and you notice that there’s women’s shampoo down on the lip of the tub and you feel like a fucking idiot because it’s the shampoo you use.

You remember, abstractly, about the night that Billy spent over at your apartment. Of course he’d have gone into your bathroom, noticed things because that’s just how Billy is. The fact that he memorized your soaps makes you chuckle and shake your head. On a whim, you peel back the curtain and look at the sink.

In a cup by the spigot is his toothbrush, black and white, and sitting inside its plastic/cardboard container is a purple and aqua colored toothbrush. The fact that he had all of this ready, possibly for this dinner…but that doesn’t make sense unless he was somehow counting on you needing to borrow his car the day of.

You smile softly. “There’s that damn line again.” You go about your shower with a grin splitting your lips, feeling a muddy mixture of all kinds of things, thankfully most of them are good. You get out before you turn into a prune, dry yourself off and spend the next fifteen minutes blow drying your hair, which you find strange (the fact that he owns a hair dryer) considering his hair is so short.

With a towel wrapped around your middle you wander into the guest room and sigh as you eye the dress laying on the bed, the heels waiting and ready at the foot of the bed. Nervousness creeps back into your bones with all the trepidation of an acquaintance trying to make small talk.

The front door beeps, keys jingle and you hear Billy sigh bone-deep. “Y/N, you here?” He calls. He sounds so tired.

You rush to the bedroom door and close it almost completely. “Yeah! I’m done in the bathroom, it’s all yours!” you yell, and he’s silent for a moment. His footsteps head toward you, and you frown. “What?”

Billy appears around the corner, leans against the wall and quirks an eyebrow at the fact that you’re hiding behind a door. “Nothing, I just…you’re not going to wear jeans and a leather jacket, right?”

You huff at him, “You’re asking me like it was an option…was it an option?”

Billy bites back a smile. “No. I just wanted to make sure.”

“Dick.” You retort and shut the door on him.

He laughs heartily, and you imagine he leaves to get a change of clothes for himself. You will away your lingering nerves and slip into the dress, this dress that fits like a custom made glove, and leaves your back open and vulnerable to piercing judgmental eyes.

You go easy on makeup. Doing the bare minimum, which is mascara, concealer for the bags under your eyes and a light coat of lipstick the color of pink roses. You stare at your heels like you expect them to get up and embed themselves in your eye sockets.

It’s been awhile since you’ve worn heels and you hope it’s like riding a bike.

Just as soon you slip into your heels there’s a knock at the door.

“How’s it coming?” Billy asks you, as if you’re working on an art project and not putting on clothes. Like you’ve never done this before.

You smooth the material around your waist, square your shoulders and walk to the door, focusing on not falling to your face.

“How’s it coming?” You snark, and swing the door open. Billy’s half-way down the hall, phone in hand, in a fresh suit wearing a navy blue tie. Bastard didn’t have to do much. You’re almost positive that you’re wrong and he only changed his tie… “I’m still alive, New York isn’t on fire, and now I’m as tall as you are. It’s going fantastic.” Alright, maybe you are still nervous.

“And here I thought Carlisle was the dramatic one-” Billy starts, making easy banter until he looks at you and he just sort of…clocks out. But not the I’m overseas eating sand between every breath and dodging bullets kind of clocking out.

And then he checks himself, states the facts in his mind and walks to the edge of that line. Stares down at it, and then backs away.

He closes his eyes and turns away. “Women…” He mutters, but you can hear him clear as day, and you follow with a wry smile pulling on your lips. “Always with the little black dress on dates. Always.”

“Date?” You say, with raised eyebrows and your head cocked to the side, your gaze ambiguous.

Billy notes his flounder with his usual amount of ease and confidence. “Well, according to you it’s only a date if I hold doors open for you.” He beams at you toothily when you flat-line your stare. “So…” He opens the front door, gazes at you for a long moment his own expression neutral, giving away nothing, and then he slips through, door falling shut after him.

You huff. “Dick.”

-

“I was gonna wait til we got inside to ask, but-” Billy lets the car idle, radio still playing though neither one of you has cared to listen to it. “What is this about? It’s not just dinner, right? This is something serious.”

You tip your head back as you exhale heavily, “Does it matter? It’s dinner, I’m in a dress, you get to flaunt your wealth and influence. Happy things all round.” You get out of the car, night air raising goosebumps on your arms and when Billy slides gracefully from his seat he slams his door shut, far harder than needed.

You forget how petty he can become, how whiplash, and just how close things rest in proximity to his emotions. A needle prick becomes a white-hot poker, a teasing jab is actually a knife buried in his sternum and so on.

Regardless of his attitude simmering below the surface of his cool façade, he offers you his arm because there’s one other thing Billy takes pride in and he wants everyone to see. He wants everyone in this establishment to know, without him saying a word.

A valet takes his car, two door-men ease your way inside and a prim and proper host wearing a bow-tie and pinstripe vest ask for your reservation.

It’s all familiar to you in a way that makes you bored and tests your willpower. All these appearances and obligations and faux-pas manners that are see-through as glass…you didn’t miss it all. A short hallway stretches from the small alcove of the host stand. Opaque gold sconces shoot light up the walls in crescent shapes and divots in the walls house lacquered end tables displaying small sculptures of modern art.

The clink and chatter, and jingle of jewelry can be heard around the corner and Billy spares you a glance. “You alright?”

An empty smile twitches your lips. “You forget, William.” You tip your chin, square your shoulders and school your expression into a mask of cold social import. “I was born into this.”

He smirks. “Like a fish to water,” He remarks, admiring your change in character. “You know, for as much as you hate it…you fit.”

You hum at him, keep your eyes on the host’s back as he leads you both through a sea of tables draped in silk and adorned with candelabras that shine, flower vases that gleam like sun on water, across lush red carpet you could dig your fingers into. Eyes follow, linger. On who, you can’t tell. Most likely Billy, he catches attention anywhere he goes, demands it more-like.

The host lays menus on the table, gives a slight bow, and returns to his station. Billy pulls out your chair for you, very couth about it, practiced and sure like he is about all things. His fingers skim across your back as he goes, trickling over your shoulder blades, brushing over smooth scars. Goosebumps rise in his wake.

When he sits down across from you, he props his elbows on the table and nets his fingers together, his mouth rests against his thumbs and he looks at you in a quiet manner, thoughts running behind his deep onyx eyes. But whatever it is that suddenly makes his hands clench he keeps to himself.

Finally, he says something, and it’s so mundane you can’t help but snort in response. “Dress is nice.”

“I’d hope so, it was a month’s worth of bounty hunting.” You glance at your menu, barely skimming the words, and you’re not surprised that the menu hasn’t changed at all in the past three years. The prices have fluctuated, descriptions have become more affluent, embellished, but overall everything is the same.

“It’s a shame,” he muses, his attention breaking for the shortest of moments to peer around the room until he’s regarding you again studiously. “All that money for it and you’ll never wear it again.”

Your lips quirk the barest amount, “How do you know?”

“We’re coming up on ten years, Y/N. I think I know you.” He rolls his eyes languidly, adjusts the lapels of his suit jacket, and cases the room again, his dark eyes glinting from the sparkle of wine glasses and vases, and a mixture of candlelight and fluorescents.

You press at a wrinkle in the silk tablecloth. “On the vein of things you know: How familiar are you with the wine selection here?”

Billy cocks his head at you, eyes gleaming. “Completely out of my depth…” There’s a tug of his mouth, a minute twitch… “Of course.”

He was. Out of his depth when you first asked to talk with him. But that was nearly a month ago and since then he’s researched this restaurant from top to bottom. Researched the décor and musical ambience, the price range of dishes and wines, the usual patrons and the not so usual. He’s acquired blueprints of the restaurant, memorized the entire layout, even managed to get his hands on their reservations book. He went so far as to find out what employees were working tonight and did a little research on them himself…He’s no longer out of his depth.

You shake your head softly, tip your chin. “There’s no such thing. Not with you.”

_Fuck if there isn’t, Y/N._ He chuckles quietly, “How would you know?”

You smile, “We’re coming up on ten years, William. I think I know you.”

A beaming grin splits his lips, one rarely seen. It makes you think of bygone days, where you were all a little younger, not fresh-faced, but unarguably more care-free. Those pointless strolls through parks- the three of you -conversation mingling with the noise of traffic, condensation from your melting milkshakes splattering the pavement. Simple. Simple as it gets, as simple as it will ever be.

He clears his throat, grabs the wine list and begins skimming it half-heartedly, something going on behind his eyes other than beverage accompaniments. He’s wondering, not for the first time, what this dinner is about. He’s an inkling that it’s to do with Carlisle or what happened to your family, and he’s running through his bullet points, his mental index cards of everything he’s done to keep you safe and wondering if there’s holes in any of it.

“Be honest,” You’re wearing a smile, teasing, but attentive. “How often do you dine like this? Reserve a table in the corner, request a posh wine, and do your paperwork with a fountain pen while all the single women in the room drool covertly into their silken napkins?”

Billy eyes stop wandering, they slide up to meet your own and he’s struck with this feeling almost like nostalgia. You across a table from him in a dress that tests his willpower and good memory- because his eyes can quickly convince him that the two of you aren’t just friends -wearing a familiar smile, his mind goes fuzzy, soft around the edges, practicality slopes from his personality like an unbalanced tier cake.

He looks around the room at all the women, wearing bright colors and rich hues, glinting jewelry and designer make-up, shooting him glances that are not so sly as they hope they are, like they’re long lashes and smoky eyeshadow actually offer some kind of camouflage for their gazes and the direction thereof. Manicured hands and glimmering heels, spotless skin, shining lips. All of it a diversion, a lie.

He has little time to entertain the farces of others, pick apart insecurities and shoulder someone else’s emotional baggage-

You. You with your fanciful black dress that’s simple and elegant but doesn’t display too much. It leaves your back open, and Billy noticed. The scars didn’t escape his notice, and they wouldn’t because he’s already seen all of them. But it’s the mere fact that he _can_ see them, that everyone can, that makes him feel proud and smug. You’re wearing a pale shade of pink on your lips, a light coat of mascara, no ostentatious jewelry, not even wearing perfume.

That’s why he can preen and strut in with you on his arm. Because you’re real. No lies. No camouflage for anything.

“Never.” He says, looking past your shoulder at a woman in a dark blue dress shooting you a cutting look. His jaw ticks. “Sometimes I go to that café, the one beside that comics store…sometimes I drive up north, park on the docks and do my paperwork on the hood of my car.”

“You sound lonely.” You remark, an eyebrow quirked at him.

He smiles and shakes his head before looking back at the wine list. “Do you know what you want?”

“Yeah, this place hasn’t changed at all.” You reply with a listless smile.

Your family used to do regular stints here, and the reason you went was because Carlisle always persuaded you to. He made dinner bearable, could get you to laugh amidst the stuffy conversation and bland mood. You had a table, reserved for a period of three days every month, and all five of you would gather round it, dripping silk, nestled into a corner with a full view of the whole restaurant. The hours you all spent…

The first course comes and goes, conversation flowing with the wine, laughter rolling with the clinking of fine cutlery, and the second course arrives with trepidation, unaware that there will be no following act. You’re half-finished, nursing one more glass of wine, watching Billy maneuver food around his plate with the smooth, fluid grace of an ice-skater.

He seems to finally note the stall in the mood for the night, and lays his fork down, settles all the dishes near the edge of the table, straightens his suit jacket and tucks himself right up to the table.

“So, what’s going on?”

You lick your lips, set your glass down on the table, and muddle your gaze around the table until you reach his eyes. “I..I need- we don’t talk about it.” You watch his hackles raise, his onyx eyes sharpen into something akin to glass: reflective, no depth, and you know you’ve lit a match, threatened to burn this night and all its niceness, but-

“And we need to talk about it, William. Because some things can’t be danced around- avoided.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey again. Thoughts? Always dying to hear from you guys. P.S. I think you'll all like the next chapter, already got it written up. Yey. Bye~~~


	11. Notes, Sheets, Music, Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wonders how far he'll go to keep you blind, wonders how far is too far, and wonders if there's anything you won't forgive him for. Because there are things you shouldn't forgive him for. He adds one more thing to that list every day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello~~~ So good to see you all again. Kinda rare that I have the next chapter ready to go, huh? Let's not question it though. Also, I made a playlist on Spotify for this story. Search for Blood In the Water by CasualAesthetic  
> Hoping you all are well and still in love with this story.

_“So, what’s the point exactly?” Carlisle asks, hefting Billy’s duffle bag onto his back. The airport is uncharacteristically slow, great gaps of space between people rather than the singular heap of rushing bodies it typically is._

_“Point? Of what?” Billy rubs at eyes, chasing grit and dryness away. His hands still smell like sand and gunmetal._

_“This. Me, picking you up, keeping it a secret, you, needing to spend your first day back at the estate.” Carlisle ticks things off, touching his right index finger to the tips of the fingers on his left hand. “It’s so clandestine, and why? You know she would have liked to be here?”_

_Billy grits his teeth, fighting off a yawn. He couldn’t catch a lick of sleep on the plane ride back, he spent a great deal of it staring at his hands, and picking dried blood from the nooks of his watch. The face of it is cracked, the hands stopped at 10:37._

_“Yeah. I know. But I need a minute.” He admits, sliding his hands into his pockets. As the two of them step onto an escalator he peers down at the first floor of the airport, watching people embrace and scream in joy, or people doing the opposite. Cry, and cling, and lament._

_Dramatic, it’s not like any of them are going away to war._

_“What, the ride home wasn’t long enough?” Carlisle adjusts the bag, looks over his shoulder, and smiles a little at the image he’s treated. Billy Russo, dead tired on his feet, as vulnerable as he could possibly be. He looks young, younger than he is as his bleary eyes take in scenery and people and modern technology, calculating it all like it’s an educated farce._

_“You know how the rides are, they’re the last stretch. Hours of quiet where what we’ve done sits with us even as we land on home soil,” Billy rubs at his eyes with one hand. “I’ve never been able to leave it all on the plane, have you?”_

_Carlisle shrugs, “I always imagine it like laundry.”_

_Billy blinks rapidly. Carlisle holds his gaze, steady, and Billy wonders if he heard his friend right. “You-…what?”_

_Carlisle cocks an eyebrow. “Laundry. It’s all laundry, Bill. Coming home, carrying a duffle of shit, still wearing it, driving home…You wash it all. Wash it when you buy coffee at Tim Horton’s in the morning, when you’re in line at the grocery store, when you listen to Y/N complain about college, wash it when you come over for dinner and pretend that my mother doesn’t flirt with you.” Carlisle steps off the escalator, grabs Billy’s arm when he sways from the sensation of stepping onto stationary ground._

_“What, that works for you?” Billy crinkles his brow._

_“It isn’t fool-proof. Sometimes it’s really hard to put it in the washing machine.” Carlisle sighs deeply, pats Billy on the shoulder and heads for the exit. “Sometimes I forget I’m even wearing it.”_

_Billy nods at his friend’s back, rubs a hand over his scruff and hurries after him. “It isn’t laundry,” he mutters to himself, wincing into the sunlight of New York and azure blue skies, white harmless clouds floating on a merry back-drop of never-ending blue. The air is crisp and fresh, invigorating._

_Carlisle’s slightly ahead, swinging his keys around on the lanyard they’re attached to, and Billy frowns softly._

_“It’s blood I can’t wash off.” He says, looking down at his hands. Stained red, and sticky. In all the crevices and minute dips, in all the wrinkles and creases of his knuckles and under his nails. His hands are clean. But the blood won’t come off._

_-_

_“Why does your car always smell brand new?” Billy asks as he settles down in the passenger seat, stretching his legs out, reveling in the luxury of the leather._

_“It doesn’t.” Carlisle clicks his seat belt into place. “It smells like money. Every night I come out and release a wad of brand new Benjamins into the cab and then leave it-“_

_“Shut the hell up.” Billy rolls his eyes as Carlisle chuckles. There’s a thermos in the cup holder, right beside a paper cup, and Billy points at the thermos. “That mine?”_

_Carlisle smirks, nods. “Sure is. Made it fresh this morning. Took ten minutes.”_

_Billy picks it up, and about sighs when he feels how warm it is. “You drip-brewed it?” He’s incredulous, his eyebrows high. “You hate drip-brewing coffee.” He remarks, and takes a tentative sip. He literally can’t help but groan._

_Carlisle nods again, smiling. “Yes, I do.”_

_-_

_“She’s not in the garage,” Billy notes, looking this way and that, and noticing the lack of you. “She’s usually borderline obsessed, waiting for you everywhere- what’d you say to her?”_

_Carlisle blows a raspberry, and pops the trunk, “Said I’d be gone for a while and might not make it back before dinner,” He scratches his jaw, glances at Billy, glances away._

_Billy perks up in his seat. “What? What is that look?”_

_“No look.” The car door shuts behind Carlisle._

_Billy scrambles out, thermos forgotten in the car. Carlisle’s disappeared behind the open trunk, and Billy scowls. He stares at the opaque door leading to the foyer hallway and finds himself inching towards it._

_“Right then.” Carlisle says, slamming the trunk closed and startling Billy. He grins from ear to ear, “On to the drama.”_

_“Drama.” Billy scoffs, rakes a hand through his hair. He’s practically buzzing out of his skin as he turns the doorknob._

_Carlisle slithers his way through first and then stops right outside the door. Billy glares so hard shadows turn his eyes into black pits._

_“Cool your jets.” Carlisle says, not perturbed. He cocks his head, a soft tune coming from the drawing room. The piano a strong, cautious, curious voice. And a violin, regretful, mourning, wistful response. You and Claire are playing together. He smiles warmly._

_Carlisle produces a long vine of red silk ribbon from inside his coat, and proceeds to tie it around Billy’s bicep, much to his friend’s obvious ire and confusion._

_“The fuck is this?” Billy hisses when Carlisle’s finished tying a bow. The oldest Holbrook looks far too pleased with himself._

_“I told her I’d bring something back from town.”_

_“…You…Proud of yourself, aren’t you.”_

_“Very.” Carlisle sets Billy’s bag down carefully, and pats him on the chest, “Gimme a minute, gotta go build the drama.”_

_Billy rolls his eyes to high heaven. Just as Carlisle starts to walk away, Billy grabs the back of his collar and shoves him into the garage. “Fuck off.” He hisses and shuts the door._

_“This is my house!” Carlisle whines from behind the glass door. When he opens it, he finds the foyer empty. But he doesn’t find the ribbon._

_It’s serene, the scene Billy walks into. Claire is seated at her upright cherry wood piano, back straight but shoulders loose, dirty blonde hair laying finely across her back and shoulders as she plays effortlessly. There’s a gentle fire going, tiny flames swaying and dancing, sparks popping quietly like shy percussion. The room smells like cinnamon and pine, and the strong earthy tang of all the wood in the room._

_Your eyes are closed, brows contemplative as you play, violin cradled lovingly, softly under your chin. Your fingers delicate upon the neck as they move and slide, coax falsettos and vibratos with masterful ease. Firelight glimmers off the polished surface of your instrument casting mellow glow upon your jaw and cheekbone._

_Billy can’t seem to find any air in the room. There’s nothing beyond the music and the area rugs, the wingback armchairs, and paneled walls. He can’t remember what sand smells like in this moment, or gunmetal. An imprint behind his eyelids: a lone tar palm tree amid gold sand- gives way for your cautious, caring grip on the bow of your violin as you soothe a honeyed melody from the strings._

_Maybe Carlisle had a point. Maybe he could treat it all like laundry, if he could come here often…watch you get swept up in a musical conversation, watch you pour out secrets with the aid of precise fingertips, watch you wait and listen and feel…maybe he could wash it all clean._

_There’s a lull in the duet, a break between the union where the piano illustrates something important, not yet heard, and it’s there that your eyes flutter open. Initially, to look at Claire, but your gaze first falls on the rug and the shadow stretched across it. And your eyes shoot up, traverse the distance in a mere second._

_Billy grins, arms folded over his chest. “You ladies take requests?”_

_Claire squeals, fingers slamming down on the keys in a horrid culmination of notes and whirls around to scowl at Billy. “You’re the worst- Y/N!” She almost falls off her bench in her haste to catch the violin you nearly throw at her._

_“Y/N?!” Billy watches the exchange with some amount of surprise. The violin is one of the few things you cherish. It’s the only gift Elise has given you that you genuinely covet._

_The next second your arms are around his neck, and his own are finding their way to your back without his volition. The spin he incorporates feels natural, a little stone thrown to break the ice, turn the mood somewhere jovial rather than emotional. He’s never been good with tears._

_Nose in his neck, you sniffle. “You smell gross.”_

_Billy still needs to wash his uniform. His arms loosen, and yours tighten in response. It makes him smile. “Missed me, huh?” He teases, dipping his head, getting temple to temple._

_Your voice wavers, “N-no. Not…at all.”_

_You start to cry, and Billy’s eyes widen to comical proportions. His arms snake tighter, he swallows jumpily, his mind on the fritz._

_“You really are the worst,” Claire says, her arms folded over her chest, watching the emotional scene play out with raised eyebrows. Billy doesn’t respond. With a wry smile, she turns around and begins playing again._

_And when Carlisle arrives a few minutes later- he wanted to give you a modicum of privacy -he finds the two of you slowly swaying to the sounds of the piano, lost in your own world as Claire constructs a secure cocoon of emotion for the two of you to rest in._

_It’s there that Carlisle realizes, for the very first time, and ahead of Billy himself, that Billy is deeply, hopelessly, pathetically, in love with you. He couldn’t be happier._

_Carlisle removes himself, making nary a sound, and carries Billy’s duffle to a guest room with a smile on his face. “Laundry,” He says, taking the clothes out of Bill’s bag, “It’s all just laundry.”_

_He washes Billy’s clothes, and spends the day in the garden, lounging on a bench under an autumn cherry tree mid-bloom. Petals rain down under persistent gusts of wind. He lies down on his back, fingers dragging aimlessly through soft grass. After some time, he hears the piano, and the violin again, trilling softly through the air, piercing the wall of shrubbery behind him. It seems you’ve opened the window in the drawing room._

_Carlisle naps peacefully, wind blowing his hair, petals cascading down around him in a heart-wrenching display of fragile grace. He’s a picture there, laying still as death in the nippy chill, which is why Billy doesn’t wake him when he comes round five minutes later. He leans against the tree, absorbing the scenery and the music, and the companionship he feels._

It’s all laundry, that’s what he tells himself as you begin to speak and hypothesize. As you show him in finite detail things he’s hoped you’d never notice or ask him about. It’s all laundry, he soothes himself, as he listens with hands clasped, elbows on the table. It’s all laundry, he reminds himself, as you carefully, skillfully, accuse himself. It’s all laundry, he knows this. But you’re quiet, waiting, and it’s his turn to talk.

He glances down at his watch. It reads 10:37.

He’s got a lot of laundry to do.

-

He swirls his wine, staring down into it-

_“Swearing on pain of death...? Bit dramatic, don’t you think, Car?”_

__-reflection of light above fractured and distorted. Billy pulls in a breath.

_“No. I know about Kandahar. I know about your deal…I have one too.”_

“You have proof, or is all this just a hunch?” Billy takes a sip of his wine, looking at you around the crystal rim.

“Have you heard anything I’ve said? None of it strikes you as suspicious?” You dig your teeth into your cheek, lest you fist the silk tablecloth and ruin it.

“Of course…It’s all suspicious. But the fact that you’ve never found anything in nearly two years…” Billy runs a hand down his jaw, with the grain of his stubble.

You plant your arms on the table, lean forward. “…you haven’t said anything about the fact that I accused you of knowing something.”

Billy shrugs, a small smirk pulling his lips. “Because I don’t need to,” He matches your posture, “Why would I keep something like that from you?”

You sigh and stifle a chuckle. “Because that’s your M.O.” You stare at him, stare at his stoic expression, which ironically gives everything away.

Billy feels there’s a game happening, hidden agenda sitting under the centerpiece of the table, or maybe within the wine bottle, laying waiting under the tablecloth…He doesn’t know the game. Doesn’t know the pieces, only knows he’s in one. He missed the rules somewhere, missed the intricacies. Who wins and how?

“My M.O?” His expression slips an inch, curiosity weening its way across his cinched brow.

“Protecting me.”

A change, something on the board has moved. Moved against him, scales tipping against his favor. But how? And why?

Billy blinks, relaxes his shoulders, and then sits back in his chair. “That’s not my M.O. Y/N.” _But it so fucking is. He just needs to persuade you it isn’t, because for some reason his M.O. is important._

“No?” Your eyes narrow the smallest amount. You don’t know if you can outsmart him, make him give something up. If there’s anything for him to give up…Billy did teach you more than just hand-to-hand and gun control. If he wasn’t aware before, he is now. That your digging for something with practiced caution, digging at him.

His sudden, inexplicable change in body behavior, it was voluntary, conscious. Appearing open and vulnerable, unconcerned like he has nothing to hide.

“My M.O. is trying to make you happy,” He says, eyebrows popping, lips twitching. “Not an easy job, let me tell you.”

Despite what you know, and what you don’t, your emotions aren’t a factor. You know…know there’s a line, can see it clear as day through the table. Can see that neither one of you has crossed it. What you don’t know is the why, and the when.

You know he’s your brother’s closest friend. He’s yours. He has no family. Neither do you. He’s the only one there for you.

Your heart skips a beat, but your stomach turns. Conflicting-emotions, they cancel out. And you’re left hanging, stupefied, clinging to the rungs of a ladder, not knowing if you should climb or let go.

Something he said stopped you short. He’s attempting to get back into easy, friendly banter with you. At least there in the luke-warm water of your friendship he knows where he stands, knows where you are. As it is, he’s waist deep in murky water, you: dancing on the edge of his peripherals, trailing rope after you, no words.

He should be able to get a read on you…I mean, damn- he’s the one who taught you about interrogation and negotiation….Fucking hell, he’s taught you too much.

“I have a question for you,” You straighten your back, aiming to make yourself look taller.

Billy reaches for his dwindling glass of wine. “Shoot.”

“That night…why did you make plans with me that late in the night?” Your brows furrow. You’ve asked yourself this same question countless times, each time coming up empty, aside from the idea that Billy somehow knew about what was going on…but if he did, wouldn’t he also try to save Carlisle, get him out of the line of fire?

You know he would’ve. Which is what’s kept you from accusing Billy all these years.

Billy halts, rim at his lips, eyes on you. And then he smiles around his glass, chuckles when he places his glass back down. “I…had this elaborate plan-” he scratches at his scruff, his mouth still split in a bashful grin. “I was-um…I was going to ask you out.” He admits, ducks his head and laughs at himself some more.

And then he groans, rubs a hand over his mouth, drags it back to grab the nape of his neck and finally looks at you. “I _was_ planning on taking that to the grave, thank you very much.”

Nothing. There’s- your brain can’t. The board has been tipped clean over, even though you know it could very well be a lie…this round is over. No winners, here. Only losers.

“I-…” you blink rapidly and tear your gaze away from his face, your brain still short-circuiting. “Pizza, and the midnight premiere of a movie was your elaborate plan?”

_Ah, giving me shit. Looks like the game is done. Whatever the hell it was._

Billy shakes his head, “No. God, no. I just…wussed out.” He shrugs sheepishly, waddles his eyes around the room, seeing nothing at all. He’s already running over your exchange, combing it with fine teeth and a microscope, looking for anything at all to burn.

You glance at him, brief as the flicker of a candle. “Pansy.”

Billy laughs from his chest, drawing a few looks. In the next moment he’s pulling his wallet from his suit and laying down three hundred dollars on the table. “I’m flattered. Let’s get out of here.”

Wordlessly, you agree, and stand. Your mind is sluggish, water-logged and burdened, and the ominous credit card strapped to your thigh along with a knife feels like a hot poker. Like instinct, your arm links with Billy’s, and this time it appears his own arm is tighter, closer to his body. Your hips brush one another every now and again.

The ride back to his apartment is quiet, radio softy humming, but you’re swirling, thoughts rampaging. There’s altogether too much space between the two of you and not enough, and the leather against your back is hot and cold at the same time. You’ve gooseflesh all along your arms but no reason for it.

“What was the plan?” You find yourself asking as you pull up, and Billy hums at you not looking at you.

As he parks the car, engine idling, he rests his hands limply along the low curve of the steering wheel and says, “Plan?”

You toy with the locking mechanism on the door, dull clicks signaling your growing unease. _Locked. Click. Unlocked. Click. Locked. Click-unlocked. Click-locked-click-click-click-CLICK!_

“The elaborate plan?”

Billy watches your finger go back and forth, observes your profile encased in shadow and accented with the light from the dashboard and his chest pinches. “Does it matter?”

You shrug, hair raising on the back of your neck. “I guess not.”

You’ve got his curiosity piqued, he turns in his seat. “What would you have said?”

Your fingers still on the door panel, you pin your gaze down the street. “Does it matter?” Your heart pounds against your ribcage, nervous shocks shooting through your muscles.

Silence meets your question, it loads itself like a gun, and you’ve been shot enough times to know there’s no room for error before it goes off. When it does go off error is the only thing that has room.

You reach for the door handle, berating yourself silently. You blame it on the heels, on the dress, anything except the truth that rests between what you know and what you don’t.

You pull on the door and it doesn’t budge. You’ve…locked yourself in.

Billy rolls his lips into his mouth, watching the back of your head, your reflection in the window. He snorts in spite of his best efforts not to.

“Shut up!” you snap, shoulders rising. Heat creeps up your neck unbidden, sinks into your bones when he full-out laughs, the cab of the car filling with the lulling tenor of his laugh. You vehemently unlock your door and pretty much kick it open.

Billy laughs harder.

Your heels click hotly all the way to the door. You punch in the code and bluster your way up the stairs, cheeks a soft shade of pink. Lights turn on at your feet, guiding your way up to his front door, and you hear the entryway beep.

You grab the handle, tur-  turn it? You lay your forehead against the cool wood, and lament the death of your pride. It could have had a long life if you weren’t such an idiot.

When Billy climbs the stairs he finds you leaning against the wall, arms crossed, glare trained to the floor. He grins cheekily, “What’s the hold-up?” he asks, shit-stirring.

You exhale a hot breath. “Door’s locked.”

Billy clicks his tongue, sucks in a breath through his teeth. “You and doors tonight, huh? Gettin’ into a lot of strife.” His grin grows stronger when you throw your venomous glare in his direction.

“Tell you what,” His keys dangle from his fingers, he jingles them. “I’ll open the door if you answer my question.”

“Your-?” Your eyes widen, and then they flat-line.

_“What would you have said?”_

Billy’s grin slides its way into smugness, and rightfully too. He plants his weight onto one leg, rolls his shoulders and waits.

You shake your head, unfold your arms. “I’d have said…go screw yourself.”

Billy’s smile remains like it’s been glued to his face. His eyes twinkle. “Nah, try again.”

You gape at him. “Fuck you. Not every woman on this planet wants to sleep with you.”

He tosses his head back with a laugh, taking it with good humor, and then he’s looking at you again with that same expression.

You leave your position against the wall. “I would have said no.” You declare, your tone firm, but your one pitfall is that your eyes speak volumes, they speak truth when your lips water lies. And Billy knows, he learned that about you a long time ago.

“Is that right?” His eyes crinkle behind the strength of the smile he’s wearing.

“ _Yes_.” You hiss at him, glowering passionately, eye-to-eye, which is rare in of itself because the two of you never see eye to eye on anything. You thank these heels momentarily.

“You remember later that night?” He asks you, tipping his chin just a tad and it’s in that moment you realize just how close the two of you are, how affected you are and how affected he’s _not_.

You swallow against the abrupt nervousness that tries to hi-jack your vocal chords. “You talking about when you wussed out again?”

“I am.” He replies without missing a beat, coffee orbs flitting between your own, some unknown emotion playing on the depth of them. “I remember you telling me I shouldn’t have.”

You lean as subtly as you can against his chest. The fingers of his free hand trail along your wrist, and you scramble to get your composure back. “Hmm…you going to back out on me again?”

He’s honest. “I’m thinking about it.”

Your hands curl in the lapels of his suit jacket, his own hand still connected to your wrist. “Don’t you dare.”

_Laundry. Now he has even more to do._

 

_“I know about your deal…I have one too. And I need your help keeping mine.”_

_“Name it.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well? How am I doing? Let me know, I love to hear from you guys, you have no idea how much it brightens my day to see that someone has dropped a comment on one of my stories. Once again, I hope you all are well, and I will see you lovelies at a later date! <3


	12. Inevitability

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So simple it's complicated. Or maybe it's so complicated it's simple. At this point, who could honestly say? All you know for certain is that Billy will always look out for you. And you know, despite the recklessness of it, that you'll look out for Frank. Everyone needs someone, at least once in their life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter summary was shit, I'm sorry. By the time I get done with a chapter my brain is literal puddy inside my cranium. Apologies on the wait as usual, didn't mean for it to be this long. Enjoy, my loves.

It’s the silence that wakes him, the anvil-heavy weight of isolation tacked onto the quiet of early morning sunshine. One arm crooked under the pillow beneath his head, the other stretched long across the chilly empty sheets, rumpled the bare minimum, tugged towards the opposite pillow. A strand of your hair clings to the starch-white pillowcase, evidence of you once having been here, but-

He sits up, rubbing sleep from his eyes and prolonging the inevitable truth, your transient existence. Coming and going, always leaving and arriving but never staying, Billy takes solace in the consistency of your reappearances, but he aches in the cold grip of your abandon. The ghosts of you that you leave in his apartment, and the way that he clings to them like a widower.

His alarm clock stares at him, silent as well, and beyond the point of ringing. He’s woken up late, later than usual, and he surmises that might be your doing, turning off the alarm so it didn’t interrupt your escape. But when did you leave? And why? What was it this time?

He throws the blankets off his waist, skin flashing with goosebumps and stands, not bothering to make the bed. He pulls the curtains wide, wincing into the growing strength of the sun and sighs, leaning his head against the cold glass, peering into the reflection of his own eyes, wondering not for the first time if he’s even worthy of keeping a good thing.

Billy sighs. It’s not the waking. It’s the rising.

Plush carpet and heavy velvet curtains, lacquered dressers and end tables, unblemished wallpaper and immaculate closets, guns strapped to the undersides of end tables, throwing knives nestled between books on shelves, shotgun hidden in the ceiling of his bathroom, brass knuckles tucked under the fruit in the bowl on his counter-

He’s tired. Tired of the duality. For once, he wishes he could wake in the comfort of his bed, ignorant to the firearms and weaponry he’s squirreled away in the safety of his own home. He wishes he could rise with the simplicity of the sun, not questioning, just being.

He turns away, and freezes, mind halting jaggedly at the scene before him.

Clothes on the floor, dress shoes and slacks, a tie and suit jacket. High heels and a soft pile of black fabric. He scratches at his well-maintained stubble and glances down at himself, his intact modesty: boxer briefs hugging him. His bedroom door is cracked open, open to the soft quiet of the rest of his abode. He shuffles towards it, hand lingering near the doorknob when he stops short again.

Coffee is carried on the breeze of his AC, strong and just brewed, invigorating. A soft clunk of porcelain on wood makes him breathe a sigh, wary to believe, to hope. But he grabs a pair of sweats from his half-opened closet and ventures out into his usually darkened hallway.

Today it is illuminated with tepid sunlight, hallway aglow with reflected shine because you’ve opened his curtains and pulled the blinds, bared his living room and kitchen to the world beyond the glass panes that separate him from the callous truth of life and the hunger it harbors for happiness.

It’s out there, lurking like an animal on the fringes of a campfire halo, waiting for the light to die so it can drag him into the chilly dark with ravenous teeth and raking claws. Life, life is a remorseless animal, clawing at the doors of a home, spurred on by gluttony and base need. He hides away, draws the shutters, and arms himself, holed up and anxious, pacing the length of his cage, waiting.

Today, today life sits patiently, just outside his door, quiet and curious, close as it’s ever gotten. Still hungry, but silently resilient.

The horizon is changing, bleeding with color, pushed from darkness towards something with promise, and he stands a moment in the gap of his hallway to stare out the window, to wonder at the fragility, the unknown, the tightrope walk he’s constructed for himself in allowing you to get as close as you have. He wonders how far to the ground, and if the fall will kill him.

Keys clack quietly, a mug is placed on the table again, and he tears his gaze away from the infinite, from the unfeeling jaws of a wanting world, to look at you. You, still here, physically present and appearing as a gift to him, such is your being: a boon to him. You’re nursing a still steaming brown porcelain mug of coffee, his laptop in the cradle of your criss-crossed legs, sleepy eyes glued to the screen with focus only driven by the substance in your cup.

Your hair is tussled, messy with sleep, limbs log-heavy, but your mind is making an effort.

How perfectly you fit there, on his couch, wearing one of his t-shirts and scrolling through webpages on his laptop, prepared a pot of coffee- how seamlessly you settle wherever you fall, it’s an unobserved talent. One he’s tried to copy through the years.

You haven’t heard him, haven’t sensed him standing beyond the scope of your peripherals, observing you with heinous worship, waiting, patient and wanting. No rousing, even as he approaches on silent feet, sunlight spilling over his form like running water, slipping off the sharper edges of him with hasty retreat. Nothing to say you’ve heard him, or seen him, nothing indicating that he’s present and real.

But you finally acknowledge him when he coasts the edge of the coffee table, breaking the bubble of your focus with smooth movement and silent approach.

Your eyes meet, morning stalled, all thoughts of later today halted in their tracks with the soft lilt of a smile pulling his lips. He’s ruminated on something, that much is clear from the doused expression in his eyes, muddied with thought and logic, and you brush it away as a side effect of just waking.

His hands grab the laptop resting on your legs and plant it on the adjacent cushion, he crouches in front of you, still wearing that unfamiliar expression. But he reaches up and curls a hand in your hair to anchor himself, to assure that this is real, reckless as it is.

Still, he doesn’t try to rationalize himself into stopping as he surges upwards and molds his mouth to your own, aching in the sternum for the want of it, the dull throb of regret for having waited too long, and knowing he was right to put it off. Knowing he shouldn’t right now.

But he’s gotten a taste, a teasing sample of what it’s like to be allowed to love you like he wants and he’s loathe to let go, even though he knows it would be better for the both of you in the long run. But he’s a weak man, a slave to his selfish wants, and the smile that you kiss him through is like sunlight punching through a heavy cloud bank, as if guided, herded by divine authority and who is he to tell God he’s wrong?

How many years it’s taken to get here, to this seemingly inevitable moment, held at bay only by his fear and his boxed-up masochism. It wasn’t meant to be like this, wasn’t meant to feel like the last bastion of defense against a world starving for the both of your lives. He shouldn’t be measuring the past between each draw of breath, each slide of your lips along his own. He shouldn’t be lamenting the future with the gentle caress of your hand along his jaw, but he is. It’s already something he’s sorry for, in spite of the relief he feels bubbling under the surface of his skin.

One day, he’ll pay for everything he’s done. The killing blow, the most painful, will be in penance for what he’s done to you. Most likely the only punishment he’ll take without a fight.

His forehead rests on your own after he’s drawn away to breathe, if not for the need of oxygen he’d kiss you until death came for him.

Your eyes are still closed, and he sweeps your features with reverence, with guilty conscience and zealous adoration. He sneaks a glance at his laptop: news articles. Something’s gone down in a small mob hideout, a massacre, brutal and inefficient. The pictures are…bracing.

“Shit, guess it’s too much to hope you’d be on Pinterest or something, hm?”

You huff a laugh through your nose and open your eyes, caught in his dark pools of inky likeness. “I wouldn’t hold your breath,” you tell him, quirking a smile.

He shakes his head, runs a hand through his mussed hair and stands, bracing his weight with a hand on your knee. “Adrenaline junkie,” he teases, dropping a peck to the crown of your head before he coasts to the kitchen for a cup of coffee.

“Guilty as charged,” You retort, picking up the laptop again. Something about the article claimed your interest this morning, and kept it. There was something familiar about the carnage, the execution, the precise manner in which the corpses fell and lay. Contained, controlled, tactical.

Billy pours himself a steaming cup of go-juice, and spies your cellphone by the machine. With laughable cosmic timing, a text for you comes in.

_P.C._

_Hey, you busy?_

Billy frowns. He’s not possessive because of the obvious milestone, it’s just more…ingrained in him. He unlocks your phone, and out of curiosity flits through your contacts. The lack of specificity in your contacts list makes a humored smile curl his mouth. No names, just initials.

“Who’s P.C.?” he asks, phone in hand as he comes around the corner, aloofness in his tone, and his body language, arm loose and hanging, not holding the cellular like some piece of damning evidence delivered on a platter.

“A friend,” You reply, looking up. He’s curious, skeptical, guarded. You smile, “A colleague. Of sorts.”

Billy’s eyebrows jolt with the information, but he takes a seat next to you, relinquishes your phone without complaint and sips his coffee, thinks for a moment. “Vigilante, like you?”

You pause at that. The title he’s just given you, and what it means. “…used to be. Not anymore.” Though, if your hunch is right you’ll be having a talk with a certain burly man.

“He the one that patched you up a few weeks back?” he asks, scratching at a chip in the rim of his mug, focus pinned to the hot porcelain in his hands.

You close the news tab you have open and shut the lid of the laptop. “He was.” He’s climbing out on a thin branch assuming P.C. are male initials, but you know it’s just his tendency to jump to worst-case. Another man in your life? That is worst case for Billy.

He exhales a short laugh through his nose and pastes a weak smile to his lips, “Well, you tell him thanks for me, next time you see him.” He takes a hefty swig of his coffee, ignoring the burn that races down his throat.

You hum, watching his profile, the curvature of his brow as he broods into his mug, the pinch at the corner of his mouth that you know has nothing to do with the coffee and everything to do with the unknown man he can only put initials to. Your eyes drop, drop to his collarbone. It catches dull light and you follow the shine of his skin to his shoulder where it darkens with a scar, healed a long time ago from some untold injury.

You wonder just how many scars marring his body are from war, if all of them are. You’ve always assumed they are because that makes sense. And you’ve never gotten the courage to ask, silly as it is. His past, his time at war have been untouchable topics and you’ve given grace for it. You’ve gleaned some things about Billy from Carlisle over the years, but nothing soul-bearing.

The small, circular, puckered scars are bullet holes healed. That much you know from the canvas of your own body. The others, the others you can only guess at on him.

Billy catches your wandering gaze and the intuitive spark in your eyes, the raw curiosity driving a crease between your brows. The crease will furrow deeper, become something physical on the soft give of your brain, will soak in. You’ll ask, eventually, when it’s finally driven you crazy.

“Most are souvenirs from overseas,” he says softly, pulling your attention away from his sternum, meeting your abashed gaze with patience, understanding. He’s been there for every one of your scars, heard the stories behind them, watched them _become_ scars. It’s only natural for you to wonder and muse about the origins of imperfections upon him. “Most.”

The repetition of that word snatches your intellect. “Most. Which ones aren’t?”

Billy’s jaw clenches minutely, his fingers contract around the hot surface of his mug and he clears his throat, “This one,” he runs a finger across a short scar just below his collarbone, gaze floating aimlessly. “It was hot, all of us kids walking from shade to shade cast by buildings, nothing better to do. Normally, we’d play stickball until the city lights came on, but it was too hot that day. So we’re wandering around, hoping for something to take our minds off the heat when we turn the corner and find the sidewalk soaked, water running into the street. A hydrant had busted, who knows how, and we didn’t question it. You’d think we found gold the way we swarmed and yelled-” He pauses to smile wistfully, and then shake his head, probably at the simplicity of it, the pureness.

He clears his throat and continues, “Anyway, it wasn’t a day out unless a fight started somehow. I don’t even remember what it was about, now. But there was this kid, smallest out of all of us, quiet. An easy target. Allan- the oldest of us -was always bullying the poor kid, talking him down, shoving him, goading him into fighting back, the whole nine yards,” He sighs heavily. And goes quiet, jaw clenching.

Regardless, you smile wanly, “Let me guess. You jumped in to help the kid?”

Billy glances at you, the fondness in your expression and relaxes in his seat, takes a bracing drink of his coffee and shrugs, “I tried to. Wasn’t much of a fighter back then,” He smiles wryly at that statement, how the truth of it has changed over the years.

“That one?” You ask softly, reaching over to trace the length of a scar on his shoulder, and Billy’s jaw goes stone-stiff. He’s quiet, eyes swirling with a dark emotion, watching your thumb caress the smoothness of the scar on his shoulder, and you’re a fraction concerned. Clearly this is a nerve you’ve found, and he hasn’t decided how he wants to handle your discovery.

Billy smiles, suddenly, tightly, and puts his mug down on the coffee table. “Later. Right now, I gotta head out or I’m going to be late.”

You watch him stand, a furrow between your brows at his abrupt evasion, the tense set to his shoulders and contemplate ways to fix that. If there are ways.

“Shower?” He asks, hand offered to you, dark eyebrows raised in even more of a question, hesitant, but waiting. There’s no predatory spark, just fondness.

You take his hand and he pulls you to your feet swiftly, “We going to take turns?” You joke, and he chuckles at you with a roll of his eyes.

He tugs you along by the tether of your hands, mind in a knot. He’s still anxious from your interrogation at dinner last night, riding a high from kissing you, stomach rolling in worry about this strange friend you have, and now he’s fighting a bitter memory of his past as he swings the door to the bathroom open, pretending he’s carefree.

He’s relieved there’s no cliché laughter and shy glances, the dynamic is the same, only the finite details have changed. He’s also relieved that this time you aren’t suffering the aftermath of a serious injury, there’s no immediate guilt clawing at him. He lets you duck under the hot spray first, and reaches for the shampoo he bought you before he even entertained the idea of actually crossing that line in the sand.

Water rolls over your shoulders, down the soft ridges of your spine, and further still, and Billy blinks his gaze away. He squeezes a healthy glob of shampoo into his hands and begins lathering it into your hair, fingers firmly massaging the soap into your scalp and your neck goes slack at his ministrations.

He grins smugly, squeezes the excess out of the length of your hair and lets you shuffle under the shower head, attempting not to stare. He succeeds, mostly. At the end of the day, he’s still a man. Still a man, and still in love with you. He’s made peace with that, that compromising truth.

When you step out and sweep your hands back over your hair, he’s looking at you, intently. But soft, soft as he’s ever dared to look at you while you can see, and you swallow thickly, “What?”

Billy beams like a lighthouse, cups your face in his hands and kisses you, tasting the water on your lips and the coffee lingering on your tongue. Your hands land on his ribcage, slippery and warm, and he hums into your mouth, content, relieved, at peace if only for a moment.

It seems impossible. He’ll spend the rest of his life musing over this moment, your reciprocation, his raw devotion much like worship brought for sacrifice. How tenderly you respond, how gently and genuine- it confounds him. That someone like you with so many soft edges could find it in yourself to touch him the way you do, the way you always have.

He slips a hand behind your neck and tilts you, pulls your body flush into his and works the kiss languidly, like he’s got all day and nothing on his mind but you. Your heart is beating fast, kicking like a drum and he can feel it in his own chest- Jesus, does he covet that. There’s no lack of sweetness to you, and he never doubted there would be.

He breaks away with a smile, drops a kiss to your damp forehead and slips under the water without meeting your dazed eyes. He washes the product out of his hair, combing his fingers through it until it loses that faint greasy feeling and then he reaches for the shampoo. He stops short when he feels your hands on his back, something cold and smooth following the warmth of your palms. Soap.

His lips curl but he makes no remark as you rub the soap into his skin, and pause to occasionally massage a knot out of his muscles. How attentive. He washes his hair quickly, more than aware of the clock against him. He’s definitely late by now, and if your hands keep doing what they’re doing he might not even go in to work today.

He swaps places with you, modest as he can, fighting back his arousal with a metaphorical bat. He makes no apologies when he plants a kiss to your temple and slips away out of the shower. “I’m late.” He tells you in lieu of an actual apology, voice strained the barest amount. He grabs a towel off the rack.

Your laugh reaches him on his way out of the bathroom, and he pauses on the threshold. “You gonna be here later?” He ties the towel around his waist and waits on your reply.

Your head pokes around the shower curtain, “Do you want me to be?”

He rolls his eyes, but flattens his lips in a weak attempt at scolding, belying the genuineness in his question. “You know I do, brat.”

You laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners, water beating you in the shoulder, like a pat on the back. “I’ll be here. Let you know if I won’t.”

He nods once, tersely. In part because you’re a snarky little shit and because he knows you’re going to go out. See this colleague. He knows you. Like the back of his head, better even. He also knows you aren’t going to take a car, because you know him. You know he’ll track you straight to this friend-

Shit. He’s still standing in the doorway, wearing an expression that speaks of premeditated murder and you’re looking right at him like he’s the most predictable, cliché thing to ever walk on two legs.

“Shut up.” He grumps, fighting a pout. He slides out, closing the door behind him, effectively cutting off another one of your laughs. His hair hangs limply, dripping water and he slicks it all back, blinking it out of his eyes on his way to the bedroom where he’s met once again with the vestiges of last night, and evidence that everything has changed.

Socks, and slacks tugged on, fitted tight and snug, pressed and ironed to obstinate perfection. Slick leather belt tugged through the loops like a snake in a burrow, buckle centered and gleaming. Next is the starch white shirt, arms punched through the laundry fresh fabric, and every button done up, threads cinched and immaculate. Collar flattened, adam’s apple poking just above the rise of the collar. The sleeves are tugged down, buttons secured, and then the hem is tucked methodically into the waist of his slacks, concealing in some ways.

It’s just tight enough to hint at the firmness of his chest, the slimness of his waist, the chiseled smoothness of his abdomen, and the lithe lines of his shoulders. A tie cinches the collar of his shirt to his throat, off-setting the smooth muscles of his neck, and drawing the eye to make a calculated admiration of his jawline in comparison to the sharp cut of his collar.

A vest drapes like expensive pageantry over the shirt, is tightened, and snug to his form, another layer of import and imposing wealth on his person. Put together like so many puzzle pieces, until the full picture comes to fruition. A charcoal black suit jacket slides over his shoulders with such fluidity it’s almost poetic, the whisper of material, the way it settles without error upon his body-

An art. One he’s spent countless dollars perfecting. One he doesn’t regret.

He slicks his hair back with a light coat of pomade, takes a last minute look in the mirror and slips a pair of black oxfords on his feet, ready for the day. For the business, and the meetings, and the phone calls.

The gun he slips into the waistband of his slacks underneath his suit jacket is for everything else.

On a whim, something purely sentimental, he lays your black dress on the unmade bed like a suggestion with a wistful smirk, and leaves. You’re still in the shower when he closes the apartment door behind himself.

When the click of the front door reaches your ears, you reach inside the shower and turn off the water. With Billy’s t-shirt draping your wet body you leave the bathroom to bask in the silence of his empty apartment. Hair dripping water, soaking the back of your shirt, you wander to the window and peer down into the street below, watching Billy leave the building.

He stops as he opens his car door, head tilted back. He waves, you wave back, and his hands grip the frame of his door, one foot in…He ducks in.

Your coffee is cold upon the spotless table, but your phone is hot. A multitude of texts come through, some from Albert, and a few from Frank. Albert is wondering if you’ve heard/seen news of what down in that restaurant, asking if you’re game to investigate. And Frank’s texts have gotten simpler.

_P.C._

_Y/N, you there?_

_P.C._

_Busy?_

_P.C._

_You okay?_

_P.C._

_Talk?_

_P.C._

_Come over._

The last text has you biting the inside of your cheek. There’s a period there, but you know it’s a still a question. Keeping appearances, still seeming abrasive and gruff rather than outright saying _Please come over._

You dump both cups of coffee into the sink, rinsing them out to be washed later, and send a basic reply.

_On my way._

Your clothes are still in the guest bedroom where you left them the night before and you tug them all on, feeling the weight of them on you like a thousand broken promises and blood-soaked regrets. Sadly enough, you find comfort in the burden of them.

Your gun is on the night stand. A 9mm Luger you’ve had for years. Billy had gotten it for you 5 years ago, almost immediately upon the return from one of his terms overseas. There was no celebration or relaxation that day. It was purchase, and then it was gun training all day, without explanation. This was unusual for him back then. He shut down any talk of firearms or questions of life across the great pond.

When he came home there was no war. When he came home, it was all utopia. Nothing ever happened. There was no need for violence or guns because the war was across the ocean, not here. And then he dropped you back off at home, gun and ammo in a metal box. Still no explanation, no small talk, or gentle goodbye, no apology for his strange behavior. Just a long, heavy stare, and then a curt nod before he stared out the windshield and waited for you to leave.

The gun is unblemished to this day, cared for and maintained to obsessive proportions. The gun, to you, symbolizes the beginning to you. The starting point of your second birthing. It was the instrument that finally freed you from the cocoon of your lavish life and you never wanted to go back.

With a soft shake of your head to ward off hazy thoughts of the past, you slip it into the waistband of your jeans, the weight and chill of it comforting.

For Billy’s preference, you close all the curtains, secure them tightly, and lock the door behind you, making a mental note to get a spare key fashioned for yourself.

Your phone vibrates inside your jacket pocket.

_P.C._

_Thanks._

 

That niggling hunch in your stomach has become a rock. You hope that Frank proves you wrong when you knock on his door. But you sincerely doubt it.

He was on a count-down, you could see that, once you recognized who he was. And you aren’t naïve enough to think you could’ve spared him from his nature. You’re just naïve enough to think you can spare him from the collateral damage thereof. Even if you’ve gotta take the collateral for yourself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, the feels, damnit. The feels. My brain is here, in season one, but my heart is in season two, reliving a certain moment over and over. Ugh. Just- ugh. *ugly cries in a corner*


End file.
